


The Tragedy of Achilles Hale

by Artemisa97



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Chris Argent is Jackson Whittemore's Parent, Discussion of Abortion, Father-Son Relationship, Heavy Angst, Jackson Whittemore is a Hale, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Panic Attacks, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Child Death, Past Mpreg, Peter Hale is Jackson Whittemore's Parent, Trauma, Untrustworthy Alan Deaton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemisa97/pseuds/Artemisa97
Summary: "Fuck you,he wants to scream.My sons are dead.But he doesn’t. That would be unfair to his sister. Peter wouldn’t be able to survive this nightmare if she wasn’t there to put him back together. The room still smells like his babies under the wolfsbane and he can’t stand it. He howls in agony, destroying the crib with his bare hands.From nowhere, a cry."Sixteen years ago, hunters killed Peter's newborn sons. Or so he thought. Now he suspects that one of them may still be alive and he will do anything to find him. No matter the cost.(Jackson comes along, but that's mostly because the teenager has taken over his couch.)





	1. The cries in the night

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! This is a very short chapter to set the scene, I promise the next ones will be a bit longer, xD
> 
> In this occasion my beta isn't Google Translator, but the wonderful Rhysiana <3 (https://rhysiana.tumblr.com/) She is great, but english is not my native language and this my first time posting in AO3, so I'm sorry if you find any mistakes.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the fic!

_ Peter knows this nightmare. The tiny room in Deaton’s clinic is as unmistakable as the weight on his arms. _

_ He lowers his eyes to the baby. He is beautiful. Tiny and sickly pale, his breath too short and sharp. He loves that little creature in his arms more than he had ever loved anything else. It hurts. Doesn’t it always? _

_ Peter caress that cute little face, brushing back his son’s fine blond hair. It’s pale as moonlight, fragile as glass. He looks like Chris, if such a thing is possible. If a five-day-old baby (just five, _ five _ , and how little is that?) can resemble anyone. His brother hadn’t. He had Peter’s dark hair but looked like a sick potato, nothing like Achilles, with his barely there blonde fuzz and plump mouth. Or maybe he just wasn’t looking hard enough back then. It is too late now, so he focuses on the baby that is still alive. _

_ For now. _

_ Peter is tired. As always, he tries to fight it, scared that the moment he closes his eyes the little baby will breathe one last time and then stop. It feels like hours before he finally just can’t keep going and falls asleep. _

_ The lack of a heartbeat wakes him up again. He gets up to look in the crib. It’s empty and it hurts as much as it always does._

_ “I’m sorry, Peter,” Talia says, voice choked by tears._

Fuck you_, he wants to scream. _ My sons are dead. _ But he doesn’t. That would be unfair to his sister. Peter wouldn’t be able to survive this nightmare if she wasn’t there to put him back together. The room still smells like his babies under the wolfsbane and he can’t stand it. He howls in agony, destroying the crib with his bare hands._

_ From nowhere, a cry._

_ Peter perks up, because that is not part of this recurring nightmare. There are never cries, just silence and death. And yet. That’s a baby. That’s _ his _ baby._

_ “Achilles!” he screams, running towards the sound. But the door won’t bulge. It’s locked. He throws himself against it to no avail._

_ “I’m sorry, Peter,” Talia repeats, still about to cry._

_ This is something different, though. It’s not just grief and sorrow; his sister feels guilty._

_ “What did you do, Talia?”_

_ She doesn’t answer and apologises again. And again. She is like a broken record and his son is still out of reach. He can’t get to him. He can’t save him._

_ Peter smells blood and freezes, terrified. But no. It’s... his own. Slowly, he touches the back of his neck, his fingertips coming back bloodied._

_ He looks at the redness, incapable of processing it, while the dream falls apart around him. The last thing he hears is the tiny, broken voice of his son, drifting away. _

* * *

Peter opened his eyes with a gasp, still in the hospital bed. Still pretending that nothing had changed, that his hands weren’t covered in Laura’s blood and that the power of an alpha wasn’t alight on his veins. 

It could have been just a bad dream. His pain bleeding into his mind to the point of twisting memories and nightmares. His guilt coming back to torture him, to give him false hope so he would suffer as Talia would, if she was alive to see her daughter’s body. 

But it wasn’t. 

Taking advantage of his solitude in the hospital room, Peter touched the back of his neck. There wasn’t blood, but he could feel a scar under his fingertips, a new one that didn’t come from the fire. 

He knew there and then that Talia had taken a memory from him and tried to hide it. His poor sister could have never guessed that Peter would become an alpha and her veil would fall apart. But it had. 

And, even if the stolen memory had died with her, Peter knew now that it was missing, his son’s cries trapped in his head, burning like the fire had. There was a chance, a real, tangible chance, that his son was alive. 

Achilles, who he thought dead and lost. He needed to find him, he needed to_―_

But no.

First, revenge. First, he would burn his family’s killer as they had burned. And then, only then, would he find out the truth. 

Once their enemies had paid their debt in blood and ashes, once they were safe… 

Peter wasn’t used to having anything to live for, not anymore, and didn’t remember if the pain was usually a part of it. But that was okay. Pain, he could work with. 

Pain would give him strength.


	2. An unlikely alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jackson Whittemore was doing homework on his couch when he got home, which was surprising. Jackson hadn’t been in the apartment when he left, to begin with, and Peter had never given him a key or any indication that he wanted him around. Obviously."
> 
> Peter searchs for his son and finds nothing but dead ends.  
(Jackson has taken over his couch, but at least he is rage cooking for him and makes good pancakes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I promised, here you have a new chapter that is _a bit_ longer.
> 
> My beta is again the wonderful Rhysiana (https://rhysiana.tumblr.com/), but all the mistakes you may find are definitely mine.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't know what the teens would be studying in highschool, so I choose _Pride and Prejudice_ because I had read an interesting perspective on Tumblr. I do like the book, but Jackson and Peter are assholes, so don't take their opinions as mine.  
DISCLAIMER 2: I also like ABBA, but they would be utterly terrible as background music and I'll die on that hill.

“Your son is alive.”

Peter let out the breath he was holding. His son was alive. He wanted to cry, both in relief and anger. He had been grieving Achilles for years and part of him wanted to scream and destroy everything in his wake. All that pain, all that suffering… and for what? And why would Talia do that to him? Why would she take his child away?

_ Because he is an Argent _ , he though. _ Who would want such a child in their pack? _

And how fucking hypocritical was his sister?

“Are you sure?” he asked, because he needed the certainty.

“His soul is marked by death, but he has overcome it,” said the old lady, nodding in a solemn manner. “He breathes today.”

“Where is he? Where can I find him?”

The witch raised her hand and held it over the candles. The smoke danced around her fingers, but the telling buzz that always accompanied magic was missing. She was thinking, reflecting, but no longer looking into the blood he had given her. Her blind eyes were white as pure milk, sinister in the darkness of the room, but Peter looked directly at them, trying to ignore the flaming candles around him.

“That I cannot answer. He has been cloaked in magic, hiding him from those who would seek him. Only your blood allows me to know that he lives.”

“What else can you tell me?” Peter asked, hiding his desperation under a facade of calm.

“Nothing that you don’t know. The pack bonds that tied him to you were snapped, leaving him adrift and out of my reach.”

“By an alpha.”

“Indeed,” she confirmed, with eerie intensity. “By Talia.”

Peter got up, pacing the small room and trying to calm his fury. He couldn’t lose control, not now. Not when he knew Achilles was alive and he could get him back. Talia wasn’t important, because no matter the pain, no matter her betrayal, she was dead.

And there was nothing Peter could do about it.

“Talia,” she said, “was a wise woman. She would never do such a thing without a reason.”

Peter punched the wall. And he punched it again and again, until the hole was the size of his head.

“I know,” he said at last, because he did.

He had always loved Talia, even when he loved no one else. Her sister would never do something like this without thinking it was for the best; she wouldn’t hurt him if there was any other choice.

But Peter couldn’t bring himself to care about that. Achilles was five days old the last time he had held him. Now he would be sixteen, the same age as the annoying teenagers Peter was forced to tolerate. He had missed his son’s first laugh, his first steps, his first words. He had lost _ everything _.

“Thank you for your help. Please, send me the bill for the damages.”

“There is no need for that, Peter Hale. I only ask that you consider what you are about to do. If you go against your sister’s will, who knows what consequences will you wake.”

Peter took his wallet out and wrote a check, leaving the number blank.

It was bad luck not to listen to a witch, but all of his good luck had burned up long ago. He wanted his son _ back _.

Jackson Whittemore was doing homework on his couch when he got home, which was surprising. Jackson hadn’t been in the apartment when he left, to begin with, and Peter had never given him a key or any indication that he wanted him around. Obviously. No one wanted him around after the whole kanima fiasco, the same way no one wanted Peter around after his revenge. Of course, he didn’t want to hang out with teenagers either, so it balanced.

“Can I help you?”

“Sure,” said Jackson, without looking up from his worksheet. “Who do you think was the true villain in _ Pride and Prejudice _?”

“Mr. Bennet.”

“Mm, thanks.” He scribbled the answer on the sheet with neat handwriting and moved on to the next question.

“You’re welcome. Now, why are you here, exactly?”

“Derek doesn’t trust you because you’re an insane murderer, so he ordered me to keep watch.”

“And he gave you the key to my apartment?” asked Peter, arching his brows towards heaven.

“No, I stole that. I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s _ raining _. It’s been raining all week and I’m sick of the terrible café across the street.”

“They do have terrible coffee, and even worse scones,” admitted Peter, who had made the awful mistake of trying out the place after moving.

“Fuck that, they use ABBA as background music.”

“What if I tell Derek you stole the key?”

“Then I’ll tell him you’ve been out of town for three days”, he said, pointing at his suitcase.

“So you haven’t already.”

“Why would I? It’s not like he actually cares, he just wants me out of his hair but doesn’t trust me enough to let me go back to my own life.”

He sounded bitter about that, which made sense. The very core of Jackson Whittemore was his desperate need for approval; living after having nearly destroyed everything he loved or cared about was probably hard.

Not like Peter gave a shit.

“Sounds sad. Leave.”

“Do we really have to do this?” Jackson sounded impossibly frustrated and, oh, this was _ so _ not about Peter. “I’ll go to Derek and tell him you made me and don’t want me here, he’ll throw me against a wall and then come here and throw _ you _against a wall. That’s his whole fucking m.o., after all, just― wall throwing!”

Jackson, annoying as he was, had a point. Derek was absolutely lost as an alpha and proved it often by snapping at his betas and getting physical. Sure, it was common in a wolf pack and Peter didn’t mind, but the teenagers had been human a month ago. Resentment was taking root in his nephew’s pack and the only thing that kept them united was their mutual terror of the Argents.

“Maybe I don’t want you around, reporting my every move to my nephew.”

“You gave him a key,” Jackson reminded him. “You wouldn’t have done that if you were going to do anything of importance here. If you’re doing anything he would object to, and I assume you are, you’d be doing it somewhere else. For example, wherever you were for the past three days. So you do your thing, I finish my homework without ABBA driving me to suicide or rain falling on me, and I’ll leave in a couple of hours. Everyone wins.”

Peter thought about it. He hadn’t realized Jackson had a brain for things beyond lacrosse and basic bullying, but apparently he wasn’t a complete waste of space. He was right, of course, because Peter had in fact given the key to Derek as an empty gesture, since he didn’t plan on doing anything shady in his apartment. He didn’t plan on doing anything shady in general, even if no one believed him. His only objective was to find his son.

Not that he would ever tell Derek that.

And fuck, he just wanted to take a shower, eat something for dinner, and start looking. It wasn’t like Jackson sitting on his couch while struggling with _ Pride and Prejudice _ was going to hinder his mission.

“Fine. Stay out of my way or the deal is off.”

“Good with me,” Jackson said, going back to his homework.

Peter rolled his eyes and resolved to ignore him. He didn’t have time to babysit Jackson, not when his son was out there.

“I hate you so much.”

Peter paused on the door, surprised. Jackson was, again, on his couch, typing furiously on his laptop. His hair was a mess and he had drunk half a pack of Red Bulls, apparently ignorant to the fact that energy drinks didn’t work on werewolves.

“Unfortunate. The door is right here.”

Jackson sent him a scathing look before flopping back on the couch.

“You fucked me over big time.”

“I think I would remember doing so, thank you very much. But if I’m so terrible, you can stop invading my home. It’s been a week and it’s no longer _ raining _.”

“You have a comfy couch and you’re never home, it’s not like I’m bothering you.”

“You’re bothering me now.”

“Well, you fucked my English grade! Mr. Bennet is the villain, really? Now I have to defend my side in a freaking debate. _ Tomorrow _ . Well, actually, in _ seven hours _,” Jackson complained, looking the hour on his phone with deranged desperation.

“Well, you didn’t have to listen to me.”

“I thought you were smart! I thought you knew about this kind of shit.”

“I am smart. And right, if you want to go there,” said Peter, who didn’t care but was vaguely offended by the questioning of his knowledge.

“Well, my teacher disagrees, and so do my classmates and the Internet. Apparently the villain was some guy named Wickham.”

“Well, yes. That’s the obvious one.”

“Why didn’t you say so, then?”

He looked at Jackson with his best “don’t bullshit me, kid” look, which was a remarkable one after having been an uncle for most of his life.

“Jackson, have you even read the book?”

“No, because it’s boring, slow, and nothing really happens.”

Peter considered this for a moment.

“Fair.”

Jackson groaned, pulling at his hair as he turned back to his computer. He looked terrible, as was now usual. It hadn’t even been a month since he died, so Peter got it. It wasn’t a great experience.

“If I help you create an argument, will you stop whining?”

“Wait. What? Why would you help me?”

“Pity,” he said, almost honest. Jackson was, after all, kind of pathetic.

That, and he was pack. Their bond was almost nonexistent, but Peter was avoiding Derek and didn’t know any of the other betas. The only reason he still let Jackson hang around was because his scent helped. He was around the pack, even if they didn’t like him either, so Peter could use him to anchor himself, in a way. It was weak and shaky, but it was something and, after coming back from the dead, he was a step away from becoming an omega. He couldn’t allow that, couldn’t fall back into insanity when Achilles was still out there.

Jackson saw that he was hiding something, but apparently decided to let it go and scooted over on the couch to give him more room. Because of course Jackson Whittemore starfished to occupy all the space available. He needed every empty gesture of power to reassure himself.

“Okay, how much do you need?”

“Enough that my teacher doesn’t realize I haven’t read the book and I made everything up. I don’t have to be right, just― not impossibly wrong, like I didn’t understood the book.”

“Well, that’s easy. You know the general plot, right?”

“Sure, Darcy was bitchy at a party, Lizzie overheard and hated him, so she assumed he was the Devil and blamed him for everything bad that happened. He was just an awkward loser and had a crush on her, but she shuts him down because of pride. He explains what actually happened in a letter and she feels bad. They end up together because Darcy has no self-respect, but he does have a lot of money.”

Peter snorted to the accurate, if simplistic, description of the book.

“Okay, but why was it important that Lizzie get married?”

“The patriarchy.”

“And?”

Jackson thought about it for a moment, clearly trying to remember the summaries he had been reading for hours.

“The inheritance?” he said at last, doubtfully.

“Exactly. The Bennets were all girls and couldn’t inherit the house and fortune from their father, so they had to get married to not starve after his death. Now, Mrs. Bennet, who is insufferable, gets this and tries to get them husbands. Mr. Bennet doesn’t really give a shit and refuses to go out of his way to help her.”

“And that’s bad.”

“He stays in his office reading and ignoring everyone. He sometimes pays attention to Lizzie because she is his favorite, but treats most of his daughters like burdens with no intelligence. His wife asks him to do things to find them husbands from time to time, but he mostly refuses, sometimes to fuck with her anxiety and sometimes because it’s vaguely inconvenient, like when she requests that they go to London so the girls can meet adequate men and he refuses because he doesn’t like the city. Be that as it may, a good marriage is the only thing standing between his family and poverty, so maybe he could make a fucking effort.”

“But Mrs. Bennet is annoying, so no one cares that he treats her like shit,” Jackson said in understanding, his face twisting in a weird, pained expression.

Peter was _ not _going to touch that and unravel whatever ball of trauma he was dealing with.

“Mrs. Bennet is a vulgar, impossible woman that constantly puts her family in a terrible social position, but she is right and the only reason her husband seems laid back and understanding is because he doesn’t care. The one time he gets off his ass is when Lydia runs away with Wickham, because that one he can’t get out of.”

“But it’s Darcy who fixes that,” Jackson said, indignant. “He could have ignored his family as he always did and nothing would have changed.”

“So he was useless even then.”

“Okay,” he nodded, frowning with distaste. “So this guy sucks and my teacher is an idiot.”

“As someone that went to high school with him, I can confirm that he _ is _an idiot.”

Jackson snorted.

“Thanks. Even if you probably have an angle.”

“Of course I do,” he admitted, getting up and going to his room.

It hadn’t been five minutes, but their pack bond had already gotten stronger, anchoring him to his nephew’s pack enough that he could avoid becoming an omega for at least a while longer.

With a satisfied smile, he showered before going back to his search.

“Shouldn’t you be home already?”

Jackson shrugged.

“I had a fight with my parents,” he said, seeming tired.

“And you came here.”

“Well, I have a key.”

“I’m going to start making you pay rent,” he mumbled, going to the kitchen. “What are you even watching?”

“_ The Great British Bake Off _. The Whittemores took away my Netflix privileges, so I can’t binge it at home.”

“Well, I’m glad you found another way of leeching off me.”

“I’ll pay for the takeout, if that will make you happy,” Jackson offered while rolling his eyes.

“How do you know I’m not cooking?”

“Your pans are still in the wrapping,” he said in a judgemental tone.

“Oh, well.”

“Why do you have a professional kitchen if you’re always going to order in?”

“I don’t know, I hired an agency to furnish the apartment. I assume they gave me more things than needed to rip me off.” Peter started to browse the takeout menus stuck to his fridge without giving it great importance. He was, after all, rich.

“They did.”

“Well, I’m not staying here long enough that it’s worth decorating myself, so. Are you fine with Thai?”

“Sure.”

Peter called the restaurant and took the laptop to do some research.

Christopher had loved cooking shows, and during college they had spent a lot of nights like this, Peter working while a show ran in the background. It was different now, of course, because Peter wasn’t resting against Christopher’s chest while the man distractedly played with his hair, because he didn’t get to steal kisses and this scenario definitely wasn’t going to end in sex on the couch. And yet, he couldn’t ignore the familiarity.

It was unnerving.

“What are you even up to?”

Peter moved the laptop away from Jackson’s prying eyes, glaring at him.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay out of my way or the deal is off?”

“Yeah, and then you helped me do my homework,” Jackson reminded him in a way that made ignoring the weirdness impossible.

“I love _ Pride and Prejudice _, it had nothing to do with you.”

“Lie. No one likes that book.”

“Millions of people like it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t. You agreed with me when I said it was boring.”

Peter took a moment.

“My niece loved it. Emily,” he added quickly, because he could barely stand thinking about Laura and didn’t want Jackson to think it was her and bring her up. “She was a romantic soul, the poor thing. And I was the only one that knew enough about literature to talk with her about it.”

As he’d hoped, Jackson felt bad for bringing it up and went back to watching the show, avoiding his eyes. It always made people look away, talking about his family. Too burdened with both pity and relief, because they were _ oh so glad _ that it wasn’t them. Peter understood and didn’t even resent them for it. He used to think the same about other people’s misfortunes, back when he had someone to care about.

_ I still have someone I care about, _ he reminded himself. _ Achilles is alive, he is out there, waiting for me. _

The food arrived and he let that train of thought go. He had spent another day looking for his son, calling everyone he could think of, visiting all of his contacts with no results. It was killing him and he couldn’t keep thinking about it. He needed a fucking break.

They ate dinner while watching the show, which was way more gentle than the programs Chris had liked back then. He missed Gordon Ramsay screaming at people, to be honest.

Finishing his food, he went back to the laptop, writing a couple of emails in Russian while the British hosts on the show were nice about their disappointment in one of the bakers.

“Just― leave Lydia out of it,” said Jackson, out of the blue.

Peter stop working, realizing that the program had finished even if Jackson’s eyes were still on the screen. His fists were closed tight at his sides, his whole body radiating tension.

“Out of what?”

“Whatever you’re planning. Last time... you really fucked her over, okay? Just leave her out of it.”

Peter was about to make a sarcastic comment about not needing her anymore, but Jackson’s face was dead serious. Peter didn’t doubt that, if he ever got close to Lydia again, he would wake up to a house on fire.

It wouldn’t even be the first time Jackson tried to burn him.

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“I wasn’t planning on contacting Lydia, anyway. This has nothing to do with any of you, so don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ll get a headache.”

“Fuck you,” Jackson said with annoyance, picking up his backpack. “And don’t dare you watch farther without me.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To be a troll.”

“Fair,” admitted Peter, going back to his emails. “Now leave already, your parents are probably worried.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, door closing behind him.

“Very mature,” he said, knowing that Jackson could still hear him, and found himself smiling.

The smile died almost as soon as it had appeared.

Peter wasn’t surprised when he woke up and smelled Jackson. He was surprised by the smell of pancakes, though.

Groaning, he dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen, where the teenager was cooking with a stormy expression.

“Do I want to ask?”

“No, you do not.”

“Well, now I have to,” he said, because that was a beginner's mistake.

Jackson huffed, flipping the pancake with rage flaming on his eyes.

“Your nephew is an ass.”

“Well, yes, on that we agree. What about it?”

“He threw Isaac against a wall!”

“And…”

“He can’t do that shit! Doesn’t he know that Lahey was an abusive asshole? And I told him that and then he turned on me because he is the worst. So. I left.”

“And you came here.”

“I don’t know why! This is just the place I want to be after I have a fight with the pack, isn’t it a werewolf thing?”

It was, but Peter didn’t want to admit it. Having a fight with your alpha was unnerving, unnatural. It rattled you to the core and shook your pack bonds. It didn’t weaken them, exactly, but sometimes it felt like it did, like you were completely adrift. So Jackson had come to a packmate’s den and made him food, one of the best ways of strengthening them again. That was all very logical, except the packmate he chose was _ Peter _.

“So you confronted Derek in front of everyone.”

“Well, yeah!”

“Defying his authority and questioning his position as the alpha, and putting Isaac on the spot about suffering abuse from his father.”

Jackson stabbed the pancake with the spatula, which was really a waste.

“Derek is _ a mess _. If you’re so smart, why aren’t you fucking helping him?”

“Because he doesn’t want me there,” Peter remind him, rolling his eyes.

Jackson huffed again, rescuing the pieces of pancake without saying anything more. Peter sighed.

“It’s normal. That you want to be around. We are pack, Jackson, and the other ones resent us too much, so the rest of our pack bonds are shit. Yes, it’s a wolf thing and it makes sense that you want to be here. And that you wanted to cook for me.”

Jackson looked up in surprise.

“I’m cooking for me, not for you. This is pure rage cooking.”

“Rage cooking.”

“It’s a thing,” he insisted, defensive.

“Well, you’re doing it in my home, so I’m getting some of those pancakes.”

“Fine. But I bought the food, so I get the blueberry ones.”

It was a good breakfast, because Jackson was a surprisingly good cook. Probably because of the cooking shows; Chris had been the same way.

Jackson was telling him about Scott’s last show of stupidity, trying to convince Derek to apologise to Allison for biting her mother, when Peter’s phone rang.

“I have to take this.”

Peter was already moving away from the table, answering the call and completely forgetting about Jackson’s existence.

“Braeden?”

“Mr. Hale.”

“Well? Did you find him?”

“Sorry, Mr. Hale, but there is no trace of your son in any pack or coven in North America.”

Peter held his breath for a second, before letting it out while clawing his own hand in frustration.

“What about other areas? South America, maybe?”

“It would be harder to trace him, so it’s not impossible that he could be hiding there. Even so, I found nothing that would indicate it.”

Peter focused on his breathing, in and out, calming himself.

“I’m paying you an _ obscene _amount of money, Braeden. And in return I expect results.”

“If I can’t find him, then you’ll get the same answer from everyone else. There is nothing to find, Mr. Hale, no trace of your son in the supernatural community.”

“Let me guess, you could keep looking but I would have to pay an extra.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve already been hired by another client, so I’ll be unavailable. I could, of course, give you a reference to another trustworthy mercenary, but I can assure you their results won’t differ from mine.”

“I think, at this point, I can’t trust your references for the same reason I can’t trust your work.”

“Well then, I wish you luck with the charlatans who will con you out of your money, Mr. Hale.”

“Thanks, but again, I won’t require your contacts.”

Peter hung up, incapable of withstanding the dread, fury, and fear the phone call had awakened. There was nothing. He had been looking for almost a month and there wasn’t a single strand of evidence, only dead ends. The universe couldn’t be cruel enough to let him know that Achilles was out there and not let him find him… but again, when had the universe been kind to Peter?

“You have a son?”

Fuck, Jackson.

The teenager was looking at him in complete shock, which was understandable. Braeden, on top of being incompetent, had just blown everything up. He was certainly recommending against using her services if anyone came to him looking for a mercenary.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Fuck that,” Jackson said, getting up. “Since when do you have a child? I thought all the Hales had died in the fire.”

“That was a private conversation and I would appreciate if you left. Right now.”

Jackson wasn’t fast enough to cover his hurt, clear as day in his unguarded expression. Peter wasn’t moved; he needed Jackson to go right now. He _ knew _. He knew about his baby and Peter was about to lose it.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure that Derek doesn’t know about this either,” Jackson spat, hurt tuning into anger.

“Well, then you should run to tell him, shouldn’t you? No one really expects you to be consistent about hating him, after all, not when you can barely function without someone giving you a steady stream of approval,” Peter mocked, hiding his fear.

If Derek found out… Peter didn’t know what he would do, which was reason enough to hide it. His nephew hated him and would surely trust his mother’s past judgment. What if he took the memory again? What if he stole Achilles from him before he could even get him back?

Jackson flipped the table, his eyes a haunting supernatural blue. Peter changed his eyes too, knowing he was going to win that battle of will. Jackson might be angry, but he was too desperate to lose.

A second passed.

Then a minute.

“Whatever,” Jackson said at last, kicking the plate of pancakes out of his way.

Peter waited until the door closed behind him to let himself fall apart. The kitchen was covered in broken pieces of china and blueberries, but that didn’t stop him from sitting on the floor until the panic attack subsided.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the second chapter!  
The next one will be from Jackson's POV and the plot will truly get in motion.


	3. Going straight to the source

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"“So, you are asking me to sneak into Deaton’s and steal from him.”_  
_“He helped steal my child, so I think I’ve a right to his fucking files.”_  
_Jackson thought about it. He agreed, of course, but didn’t know if he should get in the middle of that mess, or even trust that Peter was telling the truth. Because he_ was _the worst, even if Jackson kept forgetting it, and every second word was a lie coming from him."_
> 
> Peter keeps looking for his son and comes up with a plan.  
(Jackson does the grunt work, but he gets paid with macarons and good television.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you have the new chapter, I hope you enjoy Jackson's POV!
> 
> My beta is again the wonderful Rhysiana (https://rhysiana.tumblr.com/), but all the mistakes you may find are definitely mine. My thanks to her and Morgana for answering my weird questions about dogs and vets, since I have no knowledge on any of those things and Google wasn't cooperating.
> 
> By the way, if you want a reference picture for Captain Miss Pirate, I based her of this cutie: http://www.jamonpop.es/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/Borde-Collie.jpg
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I added the tag "Untrustworthy Alan Deaton" in case someone really likes his character and doesn't want to read. I think he is shaddy AF and this fic is going to portrait him as such.

Jackson hated Peter Hale. For some reason, he had forgotten it lately, but that was in the past, because the werewolf had just reminded him that he was _ a shit_.

He would go back to stalking him from the bad café across the street, his wonderful couch and TV be damned. Whatever, he didn’t need Peter. He didn’t even wanted him around. He would just― ignore him. While keeping watch so Derek wouldn’t break his fingers.

Having decided on a course of action, Jackson celebrated the decision by slapping closed the door of his Porsche. And it was such a great way of celebrating that he did it again with the front door, enjoying the rattling of the trophy case in the main entrance. Lately he had come to hate that thing.

“Jackson! I’ve raised you better than that!”

The voice of Nancy, angry and snappish, feed his own fury. Jackson had been in a perpetual fight with his family since the werewolf business had started, and it didn’t seem like it would end soon.

“Sorry,” he lied, since he didn’t want to get into another argument at the moment, when his nerves were so frayed.

He checked that the trophy case was intact. It was. David had spent a lot of money having it built and it was probably more secure than the town bank. It was full, nearly bursting, and a couple of months ago Jackson had been trying to convince his dad that they should build another one for him. It was hard to fit between his mother’s accomplishments. Nearly a hundred trophies and medals, spanning from her childhood to her late twenties, when she had busted her knee. Nancy Whittemore had been one of the best tennis players in California and his family had never shied away from her glory.

After her injury, she had become a housewife and, a couple of years later, they had adopted him. He had proven to be a shitty consolation prize, but his lacrosse trophies could still fill a place on the case. For years, Jackson had wanted to go pro, to finally be enough for them.

Now… he didn’t knew what he wanted, but Jackson was sure to fuck it up when he found out, so he wasn’t in any hurry.

“What’s gotten into you?” asked Nancy, coming to check for herself. She was dressed up, wearing a gorgeous knee-length blue dress and pearl earrings, her shiny blond hair in a tight knot at her nape.

“I already said I’m sorry, okay? Leave it alone,” he snapped, gritting his teeth.

Nancy took a deep breath, visibly telling herself to put up with him, because every day she was worse and worse at pretending he wasn’t a disappointment she no longer wanted to deal with.

“I thought you were going to spend the day with Lydia. I’m having a couple of friends over for brunch.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll lock myself in my room and pretend I don’t exist.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she snapped. “Stop being so dramatic, for the love of God.”

“Whatever,” Jackson muttered, running upstairs.

“Jackson! I’m talking to you!”

“Not anymore!”

He locked his room’s door and threw himself in his bed, screaming into his pillow. All of it, he decided, was Peter’s fault. And Derek’s, who had fucked the day up in the first place. The werewolf powers were great, but they weren’t worth the fucking drama.

Especially because now he could hear the Whittemores speaking on the phone. “He is impossible,” “I don’t know what we can do about him,” “we can’t tolerate this behaviour,” “_ ungrateful brat _”―

Jackson picked up his headphones and blasted music as loud as his hearing would tolerate it without bleeding.

Fuck everything, he didn’t need any of this fucking shit.

“Dancing Queen” was a terrible song. He had thought so for years, since the first time he had to dance to it with Lydia in a school dance. He wasn’t a great dancer and she had not shied away from telling him so, frustrated by his incompetence ruining the moment.

The barista didn’t seem to think the same, since she was singing along under her breath while working. It wasn’t loud enough to bother anyone… with human hearing. To him, that shitty café was basically a disco nightclub/karaoke bar with bad coffee and dry overpriced cookies.

_ You are the dancing queeeeeeeeeeeeeen _

_ Young and sweet _

_ Only seventeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen _

“This _ is _torture,” Peter said making a face, before sitting with him.

_ Dancing queeeeeeeeeeeen _

_ Feel the beat from the tambouriiiiiiiine, oh yeaaaaaaaaah _

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I wanted to apologize about Saturday,” he said in a serious manner. “Preferably not _ here _.”

_ You can daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaance _

_ You can jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive _

_ Having the time of your liiiiiiiiiiiife _

“I don’t want your apologies, leave me alone.”

“You haven’t told Derek,” Peter said, looking at him as he was something under a microscope.

“Derek is an asshole and just because he’s my alpha doesn’t mean I owe him shit.”

“Thank you.”

That was completely unexpected. Peter didn’t seem the type to offer thanks freely. Not outside of a sarcastic comment, at least. Jackson was _ furious _with him, but also… well. Getting thanked felt awkward.

“Shut up,” he said at the end, going back to his shitty cookie.

“I think I owe you an explanation.”

That did pique Jackson’s attention, because in the rare moments he could calm himself enough to think, he was insanely curious. Peter had a son? That was the weirdest thing ever and he had planned on finding out what it was about, but if Peter was going to offer the answers himself… well, it would save a lot of time. But could he trust his version? Could he trust _ him _?

_ You're a teaser, you turn 'em ooooooooon _

_ Leave 'em burning and then you're gooooooooone _

_ Looking out for another _

_ Anyone will do _

_ You're in the mood for a daaaaaaaaaance _

“Fine, whatever, but let's get _ out _of here.”

“You won’t find me arguing,” Peter said, with a snobbish scowl towards the whole café.

“Is Hell worse than this place?” Jackson asked while leaving the seven fucking dollars the torture chamber asked in return for it’s shitty food on the table.

“Of course. In Hell the background music is skaa,” Peter answered, turning towards the door.

Jackson almost snorted, but got to keep it in. He was still angry with Peter and this time he wasn’t forgetting that he was _ the worst _, even if his wonderful apartment was blessedly silent.

His place was great, though. All cool colors and mid-century furniture, with a couple of accent walls of exposed brick in a mix of elegant and industrial. Jackson guessed that he had paid someone to decorate as he had done with furnishing, because it was all current trends and Peter had spent the last six years in a coma. They had totally ripped him off by buying unnecessary stuff, but they were good at what they did, since the couch was the softest, nicest thing he had ever sat on and the mounted TV covered half the wall.

Peter went into the kitchen and sat into one of the chairs, in front of an elaborate tea set that didn’t really go with the rest of the place.

“Sit down, Jackson,” he said while starting to serve the tea in an elegant manner. Jackson felt like he was in a very weird episode of _ Downton Abbey _.

“Are you trying to bribe me with tea?”

“And macarons,” he added, gesturing the cute little plate they were towered on, impossibly delicate and delicious.

“What flavors?” Jackson asked, just to be difficult.

“Red velvet, salted caramel, lavender, green tea, blueberry, and chocolate peanut butter,” answered Peter with the kind of expression that screamed to the world he was winning at life while barely putting in any effort.

He _ was _the worst.

And right.

“Fine,” he said, sitting down and sipping his tea. The flavour was strong enough to make him cough.

“You don’t like Ceylon tea?”

“Don’t even know what that is, but whatever. You were going to give me answers.”

Peter made a face and sipped his tea, clearly thinking about what to say. Jackson didn’t believe for a moment that he hadn’t planned it out already, but gave him a break and took one of the macarons.

“About fifteen years ago, I had twin sons. When they were three days old, hunters attacked Deaton’s Clinic with wolfsbane bombs.” Peter’s voice didn’t break, but it shook minutely. He placed his teacup on its saucer, his little finger tracing the border in a nervous tick that he didn’t seem to notice. “My firstborn died within the hour, but my second son was human. Wolfsbane was still toxic to him, of course, but not to the same degree… He lived two more days and then died in my arms while I slept.”

“Fuck,” Jackson said, horrified, because there wasn’t much he could say about dead babies. “Do you know who did it?”

Peter shook his head, his finger scratching the plate in a sharp movement that spoke volumes about his emotional state.

“We never found out. Hunters know what they’re doing; it’s very hard to track them. I found Kate because something like the fire meant she had accomplices, but anyone could throw bombs through a window.”

“But you think one of them is still alive?”

“I know he is. I consulted a witch and, even if she couldn’t find him, it was clear he is alive. That’s what I’ve been doing, searching for him.”

“And you can’t find him,” he said, remembering the call. “But you think I can do something to help, or you wouldn’t be telling me about it.”

Peter looked vaguely amused.

“You got it in one.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what you expect from me,” Jackson admitted. “I don’t know where your son is or how to find him.”

“My sister stole some memories from me, so I don’t remember much about what happened―”

“Wait, your alpha can take memories from you? You gotta be kidding me!” he said, immediately terrified. Derek was one of the most untrustworthy people he knew; if he was capable of playing with their minds…

“Yes, but my nephew doesn’t know how, so you can stop freaking out. It’s a very complicated process that requires both study and mental stability, neither of those being Derek’s cup of tea.”

“Just when I think I know what’s up, you people come up with some other terrifying fucking thing that alphas can do. Jesus,” he mumbled, drinking some of the tea. It was supposed to be calming, right?

“If you’ve finished, I would like it if we could go back to finding my son before he dies of old age,” Peter said prissily and annoyed.

“Sure, but you have to understand, this is _ crazy _.”

“As I was saying,” Peter continued, ignoring him. “I need to know what my sister did with my baby, and that information is probably in Deaton’s files. He is quite the archivist and keeps a register of everything.”

“Why can’t you ask him, then?”

“Because he hates me. And anyway, I wouldn’t trust his answers. Alan Deaton is one of the most conniving and manipulative men in town, even if you count me, and was loyal to a fault to my sister. He would die before betraying her trust.

“He warded the clinic against me, but he doesn’t have any reason to suspect that you would help me or that I would have told you any of this. I need you to find my son’s file.”

“So, you are asking me to sneak into Deaton’s and steal from him.”

“He helped steal my child, so I think I’ve a right to his fucking files.”

Jackson thought about it. He agreed, of course, but didn’t know if he should get in the middle of that mess, or even trust that Peter was telling the truth. Because he _ was _the worst, even if Jackson kept forgetting it, and every second word was a lie coming from him.

Peter sighed tiredly, placing a folder over the kitchen table. It was green and soft to the touch, with a white sticker at the top that read _ Hale, Achilles _ in a round and measured hand. Jackson would have made fun of the name, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t the moment.

“I’m just asking you to swap the folders. I’ve been hitting dead ends for more than a month, Jackson. I need to find him. _ Please _.”

“Fuck my life,” complained Jackson, rubbing his eyes. “You are an asshole and I don’t fully trust you. And if you pull any more shit, I swear that I’ll go to Derek with all of this.”

“That’s a yes, even if it’s a contentious one.”

Peter sounded hopeful. The dick. Jackson wondered if his birth parents would have wanted him that much. Probably not, since the Millers had died in a traffic accident for being high as a fucking kite. It was a miracle that he didn’t have chronic brain damage after all the drugs his mom had taken while pregnant. If they had wanted him at all, they would have cleaned up their fucking act instead of getting themselves killed.

“It is a yes,” Jackson confirmed. “But I hope you have something a bit more helpful that _ ‘swap the files’. _”

“Of course,” Peter nodded, getting up to take a sleek briefcase off the counter. He opened it and gave him a weird, shiny thing in a ziploc bag. “Don’t open it until you’re inside, because it doesn’t last more than fifteen minutes. This charm should keep you somewhat hidden from Deaton. It covers you in a spell that will make you seem irrelevant, so he won’t pay you any attention. Now, this is a different story,” he added, handing him a couple of round pieces of metal. “You can press them against a lock to open it and create a hole in the protection wards. Once you take it off, they mend themselves without leaving any evidence of your tampering.”

“Woah, where did you get all of this?” asked Jackson, looking inside the briefcase. It had a dozen compartments, all full of strange things that he couldn’t identify.

“I was a thief and con artist before the fire,” Peter revealed, nonchalant. “I’ve also made a map of the clinic so you know where he keeps his files. If Deaton hasn’t changed the system, and believe me, he hasn’t, then all the supernatural files are in this particular cabinet,” he explained, pointing at it on said map.

“So what, you’re the guy from _ Ocean’s Eleven _?”

“I like to think I’m more like the guy from _ White Collar, _” corrected Peter with a scowl. “And you keep changing the subject.”

“Well, you keep distracting me.”

Peter rolled his eyes in a way that reminded him of Scar in _ The Lion king _. Jackson was pretty sure he was being insulted.

“Get into the clinic, activate the spell, go to the backroom, and use the charm to open the cabinet’s lock and swap the files. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking for. Is that concise enough for you?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, it’s impossible to sneak into the clinic, Alan’s wards are too powerful, so we’ll need to come up with some kind of excuse for you to go.”

“Oh, I already got that one under control.”

Peter arched his brow again, pausing in the middle of taking another sip of tea.

“Do you, now.”

“I have my ways,” Jackson said, arching his own brow in answer.

“Okay, then. But if you fuck this up because of pride, I will skin you alive.”

“Kinky.”

“Plenty. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one. What’s _ White Collar _?”

Peter snorted, biting into a peanut butter macaroon.

“How much longer do you have to keep watch on me?”

“About three more hours.”

“Great,” he said, picking up the tea set without disturbing either the teacups or the macaron tower; really, when he wasn’t a psychotic murderer or, apparently, a criminal, he was a character from _ Downton Abbey _. “Come on, I’m going to educate you in shows beyond cooking competitions.”

Jackson rolled his eyes and followed him. At least it wasn’t ABBA.

Danny opened the door, blinking at Jackson in surprise. They hadn’t hung out much since the supernatural shit hit the fan, because Jackson was a terrible friend.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hi to you too,” he snarked, because Jackson wasn’t going to acknowledge how his best friend should close the door on his face.

Danny, who would never let Jackson get away with half the shit he tried to pull off and was about to call him on it, was interrupted by his wonderful, amazing, incredible dog. The collie jumped out of nowhere and barked in greeting, wagging her tail like crazy.

He fell to his knees to hug Captain Miss Pirate, the real reason for his visit. She was an old collie with a white face and a couple of black spots around her right eye. Danny’s little sister had proclaimed she was a pirate captain when they adopted her, only to have the guy from the shelter tell her that it was a girl. She had screamed “Captain Miss Pirate!” and Danny’s mom had found it too amusing to refuse. The Mahaelanis called her Cap and Jackson loved her as much as he could love anything.

“Hi, old girl! Who’s a good girl? You are the bestest girl, yes, you are! Do you want a treat?”

“Stop stuffing my dog,” said Danny, in a resigned tone that spoke of experience.

Jackson ignored him, giving her the bacon treats he had bought for her and scratching behind her ear.

“You said last week that you had to take this sweetie pie to the vet for one of her shots, so I thought that I would give you a ride.”

“Out of nowhere,” Danny said, unamused and suspicious.

“Mm, well, you don’t have a car and I’m happy to help. Aren’t I, Miss Pirate? Aren’t I happy to help you? Yes, I am,” he assured her, unashamed of his baby talk.

He tried to stay on brand and not show vulnerability very often… or ever. But Cap had been his best friend’s dog since they were seven and he had fallen in love at first sight. His parents refused to buy him a puppy, but he could live vicariously through Danny and get to play with the best dog in existence.

Fuck, she was amazing. He gave her another treat.

“I see through you, man. You want something.”

He did, but he couldn’t tell Danny the truth. The supernatural world was dangerous and cruel, he wanted to keep his best friend away from it. Jackson sighed, kissing Cap’s cute face.

“I do. I need an excuse to get into Deaton’s.”

“Why on Earth?”

“Just― trust me on this one?”

Danny stared at him for a couple of seconds, expression stony. Jackson didn’t usually fear not being enough for Danny, because his best friend had been very insistent about how messed up that was and had finally convinced him, but― He had been terrible. He had crossed all the lines and Danny was smart, even if he liked assholes a little too much. There was the chance that he had finally wised up enough to see that Jackson was trash, as everyone else in his life had concluded at some point.

“One day,” Danny said, “you’re going to try that shit with someone else and they’ll laugh in your face. I don’t think you understand how great of a friend I’m being.”

“I do.”

Damn, it sounded way too earnest. Jackson made a face before burying himself in Cap’s fluff, uncomfortable. Really, if he couldn’t keep it together talking with his best friend, how on Earth was he going to manage to pull the job at Deaton’s?

“Okay, then,” said Danny, softly. Probably pitying him, as much as he would deny it. “I’ll let my mom know.”

Jackson nodded, nonchalant, until his friend turned away. Then he got to bury his face in Cap’s fur again, breathing shakily.

“You still like me even if I’m a mess, don’t you, my sweet girl?”

Captain Miss Pirate barked happily, her tongue out and tail flailing. He decided to interpret that reaction as a yes and to be grateful dogs didn’t have better judgement.

The drive to Deaton’s was mostly silent. Danny kept looking at him like he was some kind of puzzle that he needed to solve and Jackson didn’t know what the hell he could say. Jackson had been kicked out of lacrosse for the season after the last terrible game that had ended with him in the hospital ―and dead―, so that was out, and Danny was in all the advanced classes, so he couldn’t bring up school either. Apart from that, everything in his life was off limits. He couldn’t complain about the pack, definitely didn’t want to talk about Lydia, and explaining Peter would be impossible.

_ “I spent yesterday watching this great show, about a cool criminal, with a middle-aged guy who killed a lot of people and, apparently, also used to be a criminal. But don’t worry, it isn’t creepy, I’m just helping him find his son who isn’t actually dead. Crazy, right? Also, werewolves are a thing and I was a lizard before I died and came back the second time. How’s your life going?” _

He parked outside of Deaton’s, happy to see the empty space where McCall’s bike usually was. Thankfully, he wasn’t around, which was good for the mission and Jackson’s mental state.

“You are not stealing drugs, right?”

Jackson looked back at Danny, surprised, and closed the car door again.

“What? No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Don’t bullshit me, okay? I know you’ve done it before. And maybe your parents and Lydia are fine with you doping yourself because they’re insane, but I’m not fucking helping you kill yourself,” Danny said, his tone rising, clearly concerned.

Jackson didn’t deserve that concern, didn’t deserve how much his best friend still fucking cared about him, so he gave him an awkward shrug, uncomfortable.

“I don’t do that anymore, I swear. I can’t tell you what this is about, but for once it’s something good,” he said, sighing. “It’s just― it’s not my secret.”

Danny examined this for a couple of seconds before rolling his eyes.

“I’m the best friend in history, just want to make that clear.”

“Obviously,” agreed Jackson, who had known that since he was nine and Danny had started to invite him to his family dinners, because Nancy had started to work as a tennis trainer and he was left alone with the nanny most of the time.

Muttering under his breath―_ cheeky asshole, you are lucky I love you, Jesus Christ _―, Danny got out of the Porsche and opened the door for Cap, who jumped to the pavement and barked happily.

Jackson followed them, ignoring the inquisitive stare to his backpack.

Alan Deaton was creepy. Jackson had always thought so and had always gotten weird stares when he said so. Everyone else seemed to think that Deaton was perfectly nice, but he couldn’t deceive Jackson. He always looked at him like he could see through the facade, like he was reading his very soul. It was unnerving and Jackson totally got why Peter hated him.

“Hello, Danny, what brings you here?”

“You called us about Cap’s shot,” he explained, trying to contain the dog, who hated the vet with an everlasting passion and would resist every step of the way.

That’s why Jackson knew he had an opening, because Danny had complained at lunch that they had to get _ another shot _ for the collie and she was always so nervous they would need at least fifteen minutes.

“And you’ve brought a friend,” said the veterinarian, looking at him with a strange intensity.

_ Fucking weirdo. _

“I’m just the _ chauffeur _,” Jackson said in a flippant tone, sitting in one of the chairs of the reception and taking out his phone.

“I see…” he whispered in a skeptical tone.

Weir-do.

He wasn’t surprised McCall worked here; they were clearly both deranged.

Once Deaton and Danny were inside, distracted by the dog, Jackson took the ziploc bag out of his pocket and opened it. A ball of light came out and covered him for one second, sparkling like someone had dumped a bucket of glitter on his head, before receding. He picked up his backpack and let it fall to the floor with a loud _ thump _, getting a look from Danny and a bark from Cap, but no reaction from Deaton.

Cool! He wondered if he could get one of these tuned to Derek. Or better yet, Finstock. Better yet, _ Harris _, who was also weirdly creepy around him and kind of bad touch. Being as hot as he was could be a trial.

Jackson picked out his backpack and went to the door on the side that Peter had indicated. It was closed, but he had the round metallic charm. He pressed it against the lock and it― well, it melted in, leaving just a tiny bump so he could grab it later. It opened without a sound.

_ Awesome _.

The backroom was ugly as hell. A tiny dump with old beige wallpaper and filled with steel file cabinets. The one where the supernatural files were kept had another lock, but it also succumbed to Peter’s trick. He started to look through the tags, realizing that every single supernatural in town had a file. Curious, he took out the first one. Isaac’s. It was full of information, of reports of injuries, accounts of abuse; there was even information on how he got along with other members of the pack! And, as Isaac had been a normal human until a couple of months ago, it meant Deaton had collected all of that since then or that he kept a file about everyone in town. He didn’t even know which option was creepier.

He started to look for Achilles’ file, but soon realized that even if the folders were in alphabetical order, the cabinet was divided by star sign. Were horoscopes real, then? He guessed that was less weird than werewolves, but it still didn’t explain how Deaton’s system made any sense. Cursing under his breath, Jackson kept looking for the tiny label. Of course, given his luck, it was in the last compartment, under the symbol of Pisces. There was only a handful of files, so he couldn’t ignore the fact that Deaton had a file on him too. _ Whittemore, Jackson _. The last of all the files.

Jackson wanted to read it. He wanted to read it real bad, but he knew that time was playing against him and, if he failed, Peter would probably murder him. They kind of liked each other again―even if Peter was still _ the worst _ for snapping at him last Saturday―, but the wolf was not playing games when it came to finding his not-actually-dead son. So, in a great act of selflessness and maturity, he ignored his own file and took Achilles’, which―

Fuck his life.

There was a second label under Achilles’. _ Hale, Unnamed _. Peter’s dead firstborn. Because of course the twins shared a fucking file.

Jackson didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t have another opportunity to get to the file, but if he swapped the fake in as it was, there was a chance Deaton would notice and, according to Peter, that would be terrible. Would he even notice? The file was as good as new after fifteen years, like it wasn’t used often. Even Jackson’s had more wear and he had only been a supernatural for a couple of months. He was pretty sure Deaton didn’t need information about Peter’s sons very often, because why would he? They had been dead for more than ten years.

Unsure, Jackson compared both folders. They were very similar, even in thickness. The only thing that would give the game away was that the copy lacked one of the stickers.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Jackson murmured, unnerved, before pulling out his claws.

He had imagined a lot of uses for his werewolf powers, but painstakingly taking off a sticker with his claws wasn’t one of them. Towards the end he was sweating and his fingers were cramping, because he knew he couldn’t fuck this up. And he was playing against the clock.

“Finally!”

He had it. He had taken off the fucking label! And it wasn’t even broken, just vaguely crumpled. Nothing that would attract Deaton’s attention. Carefully of not wrinkling it further, he attached it to the fake file and put it away, closing the cabinet.

He had done it!

Feeling giddy with pride, he got the file in his backpack, took the charms off the locks and went back to the waiting room. He could see Deaton and Danny fussing around Cap, who was still frightened. He had swapped the files with time to spare. Wait until he told Peter! Neil Caffrey had nothing on him.

Jackson went back to his phone with a satisfied smile, sending a text to Peter.

_ I got the file. I’ll be over in half an hour. _

He was expecting a quick answer from Peter, but not the one he got.

_ Tomorrow. I’ve been dragged into a hunt against my will and I doubt I’ll get to the apartment before dawn. _

Jackson frowned, both concerned and annoyed.

_ Dude, I think this is more important. _

_ Oh, I agree _ , Peter answered quickly. _ But Chris Argent is taking advantage of his agreement with Derek and has forced me to help him kill a nest of harpies. _

_ Fine. _

Jackson turned off his phone with a pout. It quickly lit up again with a new message.

_ Thank you, Jackson. Your help has been invaluable. I’m in your debt. _

He hated the fact those words made him feel better. That, even if he was still annoyed, it helped.

Well, it wasn’t like Jackson could blame Peter. Derek and Mr. Argent had been the ones to hash out the treaty and decide that both sides could demand help from the other. He was of the opinion that they should drive the Argents out of town and, with them, most of their problems, but Derek disagreed. Mostly because of McCall throwing a fit about it. He would have pressed more, but things with Lydia were awkward enough without him going publicly against her best friend.

Captain Miss Pirate’s bark got him out of his own head, realizing that they were done. He scratched the old collie behind her cute little ears and gave her another bacon treat.

“Really, Jackson?” Danny asked, clearly frustrated.

“Let her have this, shots are no fun.”

“Ah, yes, but they are a necessity,” said Deaton in his classic calm yet intense tone of voice. “Without them, she could get very sick. Sometimes, unpleasant things must be done to prevent further harm.”

“Do you charge extra for the ominous speech?”

Deaton smiled softly. It was faker than a wooden dollar and, really, he didn’t understand how people liked the guy.

“No, Mr. Whittemore, I’m happy to give them for free.”

“Pity, you could sell them to produce fortune cookies.”

Danny elbowed him in the ribs, but there was barely strength behind it. Less of a _ “stop antagonizing the poor man, you asshole” _ and more of a _ “dude, I want to get home at some point today.” _ Jackson obeyed and stayed quiet while his friend paid the creep, concentrating on more important things, like getting cuddled by Cap. She really was the best dog ever.

The ride back to Mahaleanis’ was silent again. Jackson drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, thinking frantically about how to fix it. If Peter wasn’t around, there was no need to go straight to the apartment, so he could spend some time with his best friend. But how to do that while keeping all his secrets?

“Okay,” Danny said once the car stopped in his driveway, “I guess I’ll see you at lunch―”

“Do you want to go to the movies?” Jackson asked abruptly, waaaaaaay to loud.

“Eh… What?”

“We could watch one of those movies that you like,” Jackson offered, resuming his nervous drumming. “The ones with Chris Evans.”

“You hate Marvel movies,” Danny reminded him, doubtful. “You think they’re for nerds.”

“Yes, but I don’t hate _ you _.”

Danny smiled at that, the first sincere smile Jackson had gotten from him in months. It felt good, like Jackson wasn’t a terrible friend after all. It only lasted a second, but the warm sensation in his chest stayed longer.

“Okay. Give me five minutes to change and I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” he said, sneaking one last pet to Cap while Danny got her out of the car.

Jackson sighed, content, before looking at his backpack.

He was an asshole, sure, but was he the kind of asshole that would snoop through information about someone’s dead kid?

Yeah, he totally was, apparently, because the curiosity was seriously killing him. Also, he shouldn’t trust Peter. For all he knew, everything Peter had told him was a lie and he was somehow helping him kill everyone in Beacon Hills. He had to know.

It didn’t stop him from feeling like shit when the first thing on file was a picture of the twins. They weren’t identical, since the one on the left had a lock of black hair falling on his forehead and the one on the right had some blonde fuzz, in addition to being way smaller. One of those babies had died and Jackson felt unexpectedly sad. It was one thing to know about it, and another to see their faces.

Uncomfortable, he looked at the actual files, trying to forget the tiny humans wrapped in blue and green blankets.

Wait―

He blinked, shaking his head, and looked again, like that was going to change the text, somehow.

_ Parents: Peter Anthony Hale and Christopher Gerard Argent _

“What the fuck,” he said in shock, looking back at the babies.

Babies were ugly potatoes and didn’t look like anyone, he decided, and went back to the text that confirmed that Peter had children with Mr. Argent. Allison’s dad. The psycho hunter who would gladly kill any of them and- wait. Peter was with him right now. What on Earth was going on?

And _ how _ could they have a child if they were both male? Was Peter trans? Was it magic? Was it a werewolf thing that somehow no one had _ warned him _ about?

The sound of Danny opening the front door warned him with enough time to get the file back in his backpack, because there was no way he could explain why he had it or what it meant. Jackson himself didn’t know what it meant, for fuck’s sake.

“You sure you’re up to watch a movie with aliens in it?” Danny teased him, amused.

“Wait. I thought it was superheroes, not aliens.”

“There are both,” answered his friend with unholy glee.

Jackson left his head fall on the steering wheel.

“The things I do for you, man.”

“Oh, yeah, you are a saint,” agreed Danny, rolling his eyes.

“And don’t you forget it,” said Jackson, starting the car with a last look at his backpack, before putting it out of mind for the afternoon.

But Peter had _ lots _of explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the third chapter!  
I swear that in the next one we will _finally_ see Chris.


	4. Old flames can still burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_Chris had doubted whether getting Peter’s help was a good idea, as he knew that there was way too much between them for it to go smoothly. Gerard had made sure to teach him to be professional and detached under any circumstances, but that never worked for too long around Peter. The wolf knew how to get under his skin and did it on purpose, vicious and cruel._  
_And now Chris was alone with him, two hours of travel ahead of them with no escape._  
_His logic told him it was the right thing to do. His gut wanted him to jump out of the car._"
> 
> Peter goes hunting with Chris and tries to deal with their past.  
(Jackson does the grunt work in the meantime, but you alredy know that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm a bit late, but this chapter was very hard to write, for some reason. At least is longer than usual and you finally get to see Chris!  
As always, thanks to Rhysiana for her help as a beta. All the mistakes you can find are definitely on me!  
DISCLAIMER: In this chapter there are mentions of suicide, relating to Victoria and another hunter that was bitten by a werewolf. It doesn't go in depth, but Peter and Chris do fight about it because, you know. It's kind of a terrible policy.

When the doorbell woke him, Peter knew who was on his door. He recognized the heartbeat, a sound that was deeply ingrained in his mind. Even his scent, as light as it was from the bedroom, was overpowering. Gunpowder, whisky, oranges, and coffee, all details of a bigger scent, something uniquely Christopher that had always tugged his heartstrings.

It lasted only a second before the sleep faded from his mind and he came back to the present. Fuck. What was Argent doing there?

What if Jackson had betrayed him? What if he had read the file and gone to Christopher with it? Even worse, what if Alan had discovered the boy and reported back to the hunters, in another attempt to get rid of him?

_ What if Christopher knows? _

Peter focused on breathing, pushing his hair out of his face with shaky hands.

He didn’t know. If Argent knew, he would have broken the door down instead of ringing the fucking doorbell.

And there it was again. Long and annoyed, demanding attention.

Peter got out of bed, forcing his anxiety down. He was Peter Hale. He had faced worse than Christopher Argent and came out on top.

Tying the silk sheets around his waist, he put his game face on. Annoyance and rage, that’s what he should be feeling at the intrusion. If Argent noticed his fear, he would know Peter was hiding something, which would be truly inconvenient. The hunter was as relentless as he was capable, and would never rest until he discovered his secret.

Scowling with an arched brow, Peter opened the door.

“Great, now I have to move,” he complained, leaning on the door frame.

Argent’s own scowl deepened, eyes flashing with anger. Peter hated him. He had been avoiding the hunter for a reason, and now, when he had him standing in front of him, he wanted to scream. Christopher was still beautiful, long and lean in a tight fitted shirt, clear eyes as sharp as ever. His tousled hair had some grey in it and there was a beard. _ A beard _. Wasn’t Peter’s life unfair enough already? Did Christopher need to make everything even more difficult, with his facial hair and faint smell of arousal? Peter hated the man in front of him, and yet his heart still ached in his presence.

Ugh, old loves could be _ so _cumbersome.

“Don’t bother, I’ll find you anyway,” said Christopher, voice rough and deep, a sound that used to make Peter’s bones melt inside out.

“Cocky, aren’t you?”

“There is a hunt. Derek told me I could bring you,” announced the hunter, straight to business.

“Why, thank you, I’m flattered you thought of me. Unfortunately, I regret to tell you that I’m going to stick with avoiding you. Have a good day!”

Of course, Argent managed to put a foot in the door fast enough to stop him from closing it. The fucker.

“Harpies, two hours away. I can’t hunt them on my own and no one else has the experience. If you refuse, I’ll have to call other hunters.”

The threat wasn’t overt, but it was clear and matter of fact. It was in everyone’s best interest to keep other hunters as far from Beacon Hills as possible. Peter knew this and was mature enough to realize that he had to go with Argent, but he really, _ really _didn’t want to.

“I have plans for today, come back tomorrow.”

“People could die, Hale,” said Argent, steel in his voice.

“People die all the time. And I should know,” Peter said with a crazed smile.

Christopher’s expression faltered for a second, but it passed way too soon. Maybe he was thinking about Peter’s untimely death. Probably about his wife’s. Or little Katie’s, with her lovely neck torn apart by Peter’s hand, blood dripping from his claws as sweet as honey.

His memory of Kate’s death, as pleasant as it was, was interrupted by an alert from Argent’s phone. He checked the message with some irritation, which meant that Peter was getting to him. Good. He deserved everything Peter could throw at him.

“_Fuck _.”

“Without getting me dinner first?” Peter fluttered his eyelashes, mockingly, and gave a tiny and provocative body roll. He didn’t intend for the sheets to fall to the floor, but he knew how to roll with the punches. “And I thought you were a _ gentleman _.”

“A four-year-old boy has been snatched,” Argent spit out, rudely ignoring Peter’s nudity.

Annoying. While Peter didn’t want to be around Christopher, if he had to be, he wanted his full attention. But again, the universe hated him.

“The harpies?”

“They shouldn’t been kidnapping children, they’re the supernatural equivalent of racoons.”

“Their name _ literally _means snatcher,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “Of course, it’s usually limited to food, but they would have the capacity. And in case of great hunger…”

“You think they want to _ eat _the child?”

“If they’re going to eat humans, children will be their first option. Their flesh is more tender.”

Christopher released his fists, fingers shaking. He always carried his stress in his hands. Years ago Peter would have taken them and kissed his knuckles, because he had been a romantic idiot. Thankfully, the intervening years had killed that ridiculous part of him. Mostly.

“We don’t have time to fight, Hale. You have five minutes to get ready, I’ll be in the car.” Argent turned around without waiting for his agreement, his boots thundering down the stairs.

Smart. Peter had decided to go with him, but that wasn’t going to stop him from fighting about it.

* * *

Peter was a contrary asshole. Chris had never forgotten, but the years had blurred how fucking infuriating it was. The wolf had waited until Chris had stepped out of the car, done with his dawdling, ready to storm back in and get him, to come out of the building.

Chris had bitten his tongue, resolved not to give him what he wanted. And what Peter wanted was always the same: attention, a reaction, get a rise out of him. So Chris got back in the car and made no comments when the wolf settled in the passenger seat. His hair was wet and the need to chastise him for soaking the upholstery nearly overpowered Chris, but he resisted the impulse.

He started the car, going over the speed limit. He would happily pay any ticket if it meant he would arrive in time to save that child.

Chris had doubted whether getting Peter’s help was a good idea, as he knew that there was way too much between them for it to go smoothly. Gerard had made sure to teach him to be professional and detached under any circumstances, but that never worked for too long around Peter. The wolf knew how to get under his skin and did it on purpose, vicious and cruel.

And now Chris was alone with him, two hours of travel ahead of them with no escape.

His logic told him it was the right thing to do. His gut wanted him to jump out of the car.

Surprisingly, Peter took out a laptop and started to work in silence, heavy metal blasting through his headphones.

Chris squeezed the steering wheel, uncomfortable. The Peter Hale he knew would never sit quietly when he had so much to needle him about. His sister, his father, his _ wife _. There was no way Peter wasn’t going to bring up the way his whole life had fallen apart.

And yet, he didn’t. He ignored him soundly and kept to himself, bobbing his head slightly to the music.

It was both a relief and a disappointment, but probably for the best. Chris wasn’t sure he could stand Peter’s commentary without pushing him out of the car, and he needed his help.

With a sigh, Chris stepped on the gas, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He really wanted to get the hunt over with so he could get away from Peter.

* * *

Peter was glad to get out of the car. He had enjoyed Argent’s confusion and caution at being ignored, how he kept looking at him like he was expecting Peter to explode at any minute, but it wasn’t worth it. Being trapped in a car with his traitorous ex-boyfriend, who had abandoned him and unknowingly impregnated him, was torture. Peter couldn’t escape him, couldn’t stop smelling him, and the loud music could barely hide the sound of his heartbeat.

He couldn’t blame anyone but himself, to be honest. Christopher had always shown that his family and duty were more important than what they had, and Peter had been the one who had fallen in love despite everything stacked against them. To his younger self, their situation had seemed as romantic as it was precarious.

His young self was a fucking idiot.

“This place stinks,” he complained, rubbing his sensitive nose.

And it did. He had been getting hints of the horrid smell for a good while before they had finally arrived at the damned farm, but being outside and surrounded by it was even worse. If Christopher had taken any other wolf, they would have been throwing up against the side of the car.

“The harpies,” Argent said, unnecessarily. “They’ve ruined this crop.”

Peter decided to do his good deed for the year and not smash Argent’s skull against the car for explaining to _ him _things he already knew. He had probably gotten used to being around useless teenagers and having to hold everyone’s hand while carefully walking them through Supernatural 101: the Dumbed Down Version.

“Yes, that’s how harpies usually work. What they can’t steal, they ruin. With excrement.”

Argent made a face, like reminding him of that was cruel. Even to a human, harpies were utterly disgusting and the smell had to be getting to him as well. Peter wanted to stuff his nose full of scented cotton with a fiery intensity, but that would look undignified. If he had to choose between making a fool of himself in front of Christopher Argent or swallowing down his heaving stomach, the answer was obvious.

“So, are we going to solve this or do you want to keep enjoying the views?”

Argent didn’t answered him, since he was a fucking asshole, walking towards the door like he expected Peter to follow him. Peter waited until the hunter rang the doorbell and turned around, his eyes screaming murder.

If Argent wanted someone easy to work with, he shouldn’t have come to Peter, after all.

A crying woman had already opened the door by the time he reached the entrance. She was small and pathetic looking, her hand clutched over her chest.

“They’ve taken him, those horrid creatures took my baby,” she whined. “My Timmy, I can’t―”

Peter didn’t laugh or propose to look inside of a well, for which he deserved some credit, in his opinion.

“Where do the harpies live?”

“How would I know that?” screamed the woman, breaking down in sobs.

Argent sent him another murderous look, which was just unfair. He hadn’t even been mean to the useless thing! True, Peter hadn’t exactly kept his cool either right after the attack on his sons, and he _ got _why she was being a rude bitch, but Christopher didn’t have any excuse.

“Could you tell us what time the incident took place?”

“I called you right afterwards, I don’t know the exact time. He was playing in the backyard and―”

“You let him go outside knowing there were harpies around?” Argent sounded horrified and very judgemental.

So when he was rude it was okay, of course. The double standard was blatant. Rolling his eyes, Peter took out his phone while the woman fell down, crying through a nervous breakdown.

Of course, then the equally concerned father appeared and started to yell at them, getting his wife on her feet. Christopher, as always, refused to back down and they started to throw the blame around, screaming at each other.

Apparently, the farmer had been a hunter, but had lost a leg to a demon and retired. He had, of course, tried to handle the harpies himself until it was too late, so now he was blaming them for not arriving as soon as he called.

The hypocrisy of a hunter, Peter swore, they were like politicians with handguns and cheap clothing.

“Their nest is less than an hour away,” announced Peter, carefully nonchalant.

Everyone looked at him in mild shock.

“Are you sure?”

“Mostly, yes. In that mountain over there.”

“How do you know, _ dog _?” asked the hunter-farmer, clearly having been warned by Argent that he was a werewolf.

“Because at that hour the wind was coming from the north,” he said, showing the data on his phone, “and the only place to the north suitable for a nest within flying distance is that mountain.”

“Harpies can fly for days, you idiot!”

“_ Nicholas _. Stop it, we are here to help,” Argent said.

“If you even care, of course,” Peter sneered, “since you seem more preoccupied with pinning the blame on someone else than doing the ten minutes of research that would have solved this ages ago. But, you know, feel free to behave like a toddler.”

“_ Peter _. You aren’t helping matters either.”

“I don’t care!” screamed the woman. “I don’t fucking care, just go save my baby, you fucking―”

The idiot tried to hug his wife, but she hit him in the chest, still crying.

Peter looked at Argent and pointedly gestured to the car with his head. The hunter sighed, nodding, and they got out of there. Neither of them were keen on comforting the victims, especially when it took time away from the actual hunt.

“Why are the harpies harassing them?”

“Why do hurricanes destroy houses? It’s their nature.”

“That’s a false equivalence, harpies are creatures, not a natural phenomenon.”

“And they love to harass people,” Argent remind him, a bit impatient.

“Harass like destroy things and steal food, not _ children _. He has to have done something, so what was it? Did he attack the nest? Has he murdered someone of his own blood?”

Argent froze, long fingers stopping mid air amidst his irritating drumming, before tensing and gripping the steering wheel until they turned white.

“That doesn’t attract harpies, those are furies.”

“There are a lot of creatures that punish that particular crime just in Greek mythology, Argent. Yes, erinyes are the most popular, but harpies can exhibit that behavior too.”

Argent swallowed, keeping his breathing under control.

“His brother was bitten by a werewolf last year. Nicholas helped him take care of it.”

Peter kept his eyes on Argent’s face, cold as fucking Antarctica, because he wasn’t going to play the game where he pretended to be understanding about hunter bullshit. He was no longer a enamored teenager, willing to ignore red flags and hateful rhetoric. When Peter was faced with that bullshit, he confronted it.

“So, the asshole murdered his brother and the harpies are trying to snatch him and drag him to Hades. I assume they’re expecting that useless piece of shit to try to save his child. The good thing is little Timmy is probably still alive, the bad one is we’re walking into an ambush.”

“Giorgios made his choice, Hale. Nicholas is only guilty of respecting it.”

“So if Allison tried to jump out a window, you’d nod and respect her decision? Or does that only apply when it’s about us animals?”

“Don’t talk about my daughter,” said Chris, icy tone. His blue eyes were drilling holes into Peter through the rear-view mirror, and he looked ready to shoot him in the face. Protective as ever.

“Do you have blessed copper bullets?” asked Peter, changing the subject.

“Of course I do,” he said, stilted. “Any particular deity?”

“Zeus or Hades would be ideal, but we can make do with Aeolos.”

“I have Zeus.”

“Great. I’ll go in to rescue the boy, you cover me.”

“We’ll need more of plan than that, Hale.”

“No, we won’t,” said Peter, putting the headphones back on.

Argent was so frustrated that he nearly drove them off the road, and if Peter had still felt any capacity for joy, it would have made him smile.

They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the mountain. The nest was there, as Peter had predicted. The smell spoke volumes.

“Stop here. If we get closer, they’ll notice us.”

Argent nodded, getting out of the car and opening his truck. It had become more impressive with the years, full of specialised weaponry and cool gadgets. They weren’t as good as Peter’s personal arsenal, but they were the best by hunter’s standards.

“Okay, Zeus-blessed copper bullets. Anything else we could need?”

“You can’t go wrong with hooks when going up against something that can fly,” answered Peter.

“Mm, point. We’ll need a first-aid kit, in case Timmy’s condition is worse than we’re expecting.”

“Do you have any nets?”

Christopher shook his head.

“These ones are too weak, the harpies would cut through them like tissue.”

“Still, they can’t hurt.”

“That they can’t,” Christopher acknowledged, taking them out of the truck.

Peter was vaguely disturbed by the familiarity, how easily they had fallen into their old ways, like no time had passed since they were young and reckless. He had gone hunting with Christopher often when they were in college, as any hunters called in for reinforcements would have tried to bunk with him during the hunt, and there was no way they could explain why he was living with a werewolf in a one-bedroom apartment.

It had been useful, as Peter had learned how hunters operated and gotten a lot of experience that would prove useful later on, when he sauntered down into a life of crime. Probably not what Christopher had intended, but he had lost all right to complain long ago.

Once they were equipped and had planned things a bit farther, they got on their way. The smell was absolutely terrible and the only reason civilians hadn’t realised something was up was because there was a sewage plant nearby masking it. It was Peter’s fucking lucky day, apparently.

It didn’t take long for them to hear Timmy’s wailing, which made Argent tense beside him. He had always been too sensitive to children suffering, which Peter attributed to displacement of his own abusive childhood.

“I go in first,” he reminded him, changing his hold on the nets.

“I know.”

“You can’t let it get to you.”

“I _ know _.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter advanced, careful to stay hidden by the rocks around the nest at all times.

There were two harpies, wretched creatures with the bodies of vultures and long, disgusting claws. Their heads looked human, like beautiful women pale with hunger, but their red eyes revealed cruelty and savagery. They were guarding little Timmy, who was still crying, dirty and covered in scratches, holding onto an action figure like it could save him from death. It couldn’t, but Peter and Christopher were going to try.

As fast as he could, he jumped into the nest and threw the net over one of the beasts. The other one was fast enough to claw him, leaving three long gashes across his chest and ruining a perfectly good shirt, but a hook soon got stuck in her wing, dragging her backwards. Peter took the opportunity to return the favor, pulling out his own claws and jumping over the creature to maul her to bits. He wasn’t an alpha anymore, but he had enough strength to cut through the tender flesh of her neck, just above the thick plumage that protected her.

“Behind you!”

Peter didn’t turn in time to avoid the other harpy, who grabbed him by the shoulders and lift him off the ground. He stabbed her in the gut with his claws, but the plumage was too dense and the beast didn’t relent. She was going to drop him to try and break his back. It wasn’t too dangerous, since he was a werewolf and could heal almost anything, but panic rose in his gut.

He couldn’t die.

Not yet.

Not when he still hadn’t found Achilles, not when he was finally close to a clue that could give him the answers he so desperately needed.

Argent shot the beast, copper bullets piercing her wings like shrapnel. She plummeted to the ground, dropping Peter, but it was far from over.

“Take Timmy!” yelled Christopher, face stony as he threw another hook to pin the monster down.

As quick as he could, Peter took the boy in his arms and ran away from the nest, carrying him to the car.

He was still crying, his eyes almost as red as the harpies’. Timmy had spent three hours in the hands of those creatures, fearing for his life. And he was so small… Peter could barely force himself not to back away from him and leave, his go-to move when he was confronted with children other than pack. They were too much of a reminder. His firstborn had never gotten to be as old as Timmy, had never cherished a special toy or owned a shirt from his favorite show, like this crying boy in the Caillou shirt.

Peter expected that his children would have had better taste, but that was neither here nor there.

“Is he okay?” asked Christopher, covered in the harpy’s blood.

“I think so.”

“Haven’t you checked?” said Argent, taking the kid from his arms with an angry look.

“What the fuck do I know about human children, Argent? It’s not something I have a lot of experience with.”

He would have, if he hadn’t lost Achilles. He would have learned, in time. He would have known what kind of band-aids to buy and what medicine worked for colds, what his fragile body needed to survive. He would have learned. He would have learned how to be a good father, even if it wasn’t in his nature.

He would have loved him, if he’d had the time.

“Peter. _ Peter _,” repeated Argent, probably not for the first time, if his tone was anything to go by.

“What? Haven’t I done enough already?”

“No, you haven’t. Take his pain away.”

Peter scoffed but obeyed, because he wanted nothing more than to return the little emotional bomb to his idiotic parents and get it _ away _from him.

The child had calmed down somewhat, but the moment Peter touched him he started to wail.

“It’s okay, Timmy. It’s okay,” soothed him Christopher, kissing his black curls with a gentleness Peter had never seen on him.

“I don’t want the monster to eat me,” he cried, babbling the words.

Peter huffed, raising his hands and getting away from the boy. It’s not like he was enjoying being around him, so if the little pipsqueak was afraid of him, Peter was happy to leave it all in Argent’s hands.

After all, he had gotten to raise Allison, so he probably knew what he was doing better than Peter, who hadn’t been capable of saving his own children.

“No one is going to eat you, Timmy. We’re just trying to help you and take you back to your parents, okay?”

“Give me the keys,” said Peter.

“Like Hell I will, you’re a terrible driver.”

“You don’t have a carseat, so he’s going to have to sit in your lap. Just give me the keys already.”

Argent looked doubtful, clearly divided between his protectiveness of the child and his hatred of Peter’s driving. Fortunately, Timmy dropped his action figure and the new cries seemed to be enough to push him into a decision.

“Drive responsibly,” commanded Argent, both angry and resigned, passing him the keys before bending down to pick up the toy.

Peter rolled his eyes, because he had been a bad driver, sure… when he was _ sixteen _ . It wasn’t his fault that Christopher had been driving since he was twelve and had more experience. And, well, he hadn’t bothered getting a car of his own while they were together, so he never really got in the practice. But all of that had been almost twenty years ago. Nowadays, Peter was considered _ competent _by Fabien Ahmad’s standards, one of the best racers in the world, and it wasn’t because they’d slept together.

They had, obviously, but that wasn’t it.

Peter made a point of showing off, going fast but never losing control of the car, no matter how abrupt the turn. Argent sent him yet another murderous look, but Peter didn’t gave a shit, he was enjoying being behind the wheel again and had learned long ago how to tune out the sound of crying children. You kind of had to, when you had as many nephews and nieces as he did.

“I don’t want dad to be angry with me,” cried Timmy, sounding miserable.

“Why would he be? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m not supposed to go outside,” he confessed with a tremorous pout. “But he and Mummie were fighting and― and―”

“It’s okay, Timmy. They aren’t angry, just very scared.”

“I can’t stop crying,” he sobbed, trying to dry his wet face with his sleeve.

“You don’t have to, it was all very scary. I would have cried too.”

“Crying is for girls,” he complained. “I’m not a girl.”

Peter rolled his eyes so hard he hit his head against the back of his seat. _ Hunters _. They shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce.

“Everyone cries sometimes, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But if I’m weak I can’t be a hunter like Daddy!”

“Oh, no, how horrible,” Peter muttered under his breath.

“_ Peter _, shut up.”

“Yeah, you are not allowed to speak to us like that, dog!”

“Shut up, cry baby,” he answered in turn, making the kid start to throw a tantrum.

Argent didn’t even bother speaking again, he just― kicked his fucking seat. Like they were in fucking high school! He took a turn as abruptly as he could, and enjoyed how they fell over the seat.

“I swear to God, Hale―”

Peter turned on the radio, clearly dismissive.

Argent didn’t try to engage again, which was smart, as Peter wouldn’t lose any sleep about flipping his car. He kept trying to calm down the bigoted little boy, brushing his hair back and talking in a low and reassuring voice.

Peter wasn’t fooled for a second; Argent was going to scream his ear off the moment Timmy was back with his horrid parents, though at least he was probably going to reprimand them as well. Argent always tried to ignore his kind’s awful behaviour, sure, but this was about a kid and Timmy could have _ died _.

Peter made sure to run over the assholes’ mailbox anyway, because he didn’t respect anyone that taught slurs to their four-year-old.

“You are impossible,” Argent blurted out, opening the car door.

“Call the _ New York Times _,” sassed him Peter, who had never played nice and wasn’t about to start now.

Argent’s only answer was to slam the door, making Peter snort under his breath, even as he was swallowing down another round of heaves thanks to the putrid smell.

He changed places in the car, knowing that Argent would be unreasonable and refuse to let him drive after he had returned Timmy, no matter how safe they had been the whole time and how much faster they had arrived. Peter was a competent getaway driver and knew what he was doing. Once he had lost the FBI in a car chase through Chicago! And it wasn’t like Argent couldn’t pay the tickets.

The woman cried out, hugging Timmy. Peter hated them all. He hated them so much he was shaking, actually. It was unfair. It was unfair that those assholes got their son back while he― 

He wasn’t a good person. He knew that and didn’t really cared, but he hadn’t deserved it. When the twins were born, Peter was twenty-two, fresh out of college and with nothing particularly terrible on his conscience. He didn’t deserve to have his children murdered. Murdered by people like the ones right there, hugging their son, content in their hate and prejudice, content in thinking of Peter as an animal.

Some would say he was a monster, yes, but he wasn’t born that way. It was in Kate’s head. In the person that had gutted him fifteen years ago, making him bury his own flesh and blood when he was barely allowed to buy a fucking beer.

And yet, Timmy was alive. He would get to grow up and laugh and murder other people children’s. And Peter had helped to make that possible. Would anyone curse him in ten years, when his shit of a father put a gun on Timmy’s hand and pointed it at someone’s kid, ordering him to pull the trigger? Maybe he would wake in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking like Christopher had, but no amount of guilt would mend those wrongs. Peter had thought it did, once, when he had been the one holding a hunter until dawn, kissing his tears away. Peter knew better now. He knew better than anyone what it felt like being at the other end of that gun.

But Achilles was alive. His son, his beautiful child, was out there and Peter would find him. He didn’t know if it would solve anything, but it was the one thing that had dragged him back to sanity after waking up from the coma. An overabundance of hope had never been Peter’s flaw, but for this, for Achilles, he was brave enough to hope.

* * *

Chris was fuming. He was always happy to help other hunters, especially the ones like Nicholas, who had sacrificed so much, but this was a mess. And it wasn’t even Peter’s fault. No, Peter was a difficult, contrary bastard, but he had helped a lot. Without him, Chris doubted that he could have taken down the harpies.

Nicholas had been the one too proud to call him for help when the problems started, until Olga had lost her patience and called him herself. And it had almost been too late.

Nicholas was the one filling that poor kid with hate and fear, in a way Chris had always hated. That’s why he and Victoria had never let Allison get involved in the hunting world, because it was such a dark and hateful place. Because it could corrupt a girl and make her into a monster no better than the ones they hunted.

Like Kate.

He closed the car door as hard as he could, grabbing the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Because a part of him wanted to go back into that house and keep insisting, keep fighting until they understood. It wouldn’t help, and Chris knew that, but leaving Timmy in that house without doing his damn best to help him…

“Lovely people,” said Peter, sarcastic.

“Don’t start, Hale.”

“Funny, one would think that they had started it several times over.”

“He’s four, for God’s sake. I’m sure your pride will recover.”

Peter huffed while Chris started back towards Beacon Hills. It was nearly over. Thank God.

“I obviously don’t resent the brat,” said Peter after a couple of seconds. “I was talking about his shitty parents.”

“Nicholas just lost a brother, he is―”

“He _ murdered _his brother. Because they think that being a werewolf is worse than being fucking dead. Sorry if, as a werewolf, that bothers me a bit.”

Victoria’s gasp, her eyes turning amber for the first and last time under the full moon and her mouth opened in a last breath. Her body going limp in his arms.

“You know what, it’s none of your fucking business. There is honor in a good death, not that you would fucking know. I should put a bullet in your brain for necromancy alone.”

“It’s my fucking business, Argent, because those people, those hateful fucks, are the ones that will hunt my kind while thinking we’re _ subhuman _. They preach about justice and impartiality while teaching slurs to their fucking toddlers. No, it’s obviously not Timmy’s fault, but in a few years he’ll be the one doing the dirty work. You of all people should fucking know that.”

“I follow the Code,” snapped Chris. “I don’t harm innocents.”

“Sure, that’s why you put a gun to Scott’s head, because of the Code and not because he was fucking your princess.”

Chris took his gun and pressed it against Peter’s head without stopping the car.

“I told you not to speak about Allison,” he said in a conversational tone.

“Did you? Seems that my little dog brain forgot,” Peter answered with fake cheer.

Chris finger tensed around the trigger, without really pulling it.

“It’s funny that you try to judge hunters for killing monster when your hands are covered in blood.”

“Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m hilarious,” he said with a glinting smile, eyes glaring daggers at him.

They were at an impasse and, as much as Chris wanted to shoot, he _ had _a Code. One that he wouldn’t betray. And he had given his word to Derek that no one from his pack would be harmed without cause. Peter being an asshole wasn’t reason enough to start a war.

Peter’s phone rang and he checked it, forgetting about Chris like he had never existed. He had done the same thing in college, deleting everything around him from his mind and focusing like a laser on whatever thing or person struck his fancy. Once, that person has been Chris. He didn’t care who it was now.

He _ didn’t _.

“Nicholas may be too harsh,” Chris said, lowering the weapon, “but that doesn’t mean that Timmy will be the same way.”

“Of course not,” said Peter, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I’m sure that when he’s a teenager and wants to anger mean old dad while getting his dick wet, he’ll change his mind about supernaturals being animals. No one likes bestiality, after all.”

Chris tried to control his breathing, squeezing the steering wheel again. He had known that Peter would bring up what they’d had to use it as a weapon against him, that he would distort their love into any shape he could use to hurt Chris. Nothing was too low of a blow in his eyes.

He turned on one of his podcasts, enjoying Peter’s grimace.

“Fishing? Really, Argent.”

Chris smiled cruelly and turned up the volume. Peter moaned and put on his headphones, effectively ending the conversation.

It wasn’t until Chris parked the car that he looked up in confusion, taking them off.

“Why are we stopping at a motel? I’m _ not _sleeping with you, if there was any doubt.”

“There isn’t,” Chris said, feeling his blood pressure rising again. “But we both need a shower and you aren’t healing, so I assume you haven’t eaten for a while.”

“Well, I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning, what with you barging into my apartment.”

“It was 1 p.m.”

“I don’t like mornings.”

“I am not getting into a war with Derek because you are incapable of feeding yourself and can’t stop the bleeding, Hale. What’s the last thing you ate?”

“I’ll have you know that I had tons of macarons just yesterday. So there.”

“_ Actual _ food. Things with nutrients. Do you even know what those are?”

“Shut up.”

Chris sighed, despite having won the argument.

“Look, it’s not a big deal. We’ll go to the room to get a shower. I’ll go first and then I’ll go to the diner to get you some food while you shower. That’s it.”

Peter looked at him for a couple of moments before huffing again.

“Fine.”

“Do you have a change of clothes?” Chris asked, looking at the state of his shirt, stinky, covered in blood, and about to fall to the ground thanks to the harpies’ gashes.

“It’s not my first rodeo, Argent,” he said, picking up his laptop bag.

They got out of the car and Chris, who somehow looked respectable in spite of the smell when he took off his blood-covered jacket, went to get them a room. It was a small place that hadn’t been redecorated since the ’70s, but they would make do.

There was hot water, at least, and Chris couldn’t lie and say that the sensation of being clean wasn’t amazing after being surrounded by filth the whole day. Years of experience made tending to himself with the first-aid kit easy and quick, especially since his wounds were mostly superficial. Sighing, Chris got dressed and tried to ready himself to confront Peter again.

“Your turn,” he said to the wolf, who was, by the looks of it, playing a game on his phone.

Peter went into the bathroom without answering, so Chris sighed again, both in relief and frustration, and went down to the greasy spoon.

It was clearly a place for truck drivers, so they had a lot of food you could eat on the road. He asked for a roast beef sandwich and a black coffee, which he drank in less than five sips, leaving him without anything to do besides waiting for the food.

The waitress looked at him with annoyance and Chris realised that he was drumming his fingers against the bar. He winced, putting his hand in his pocket. Peter had gotten under his skin. After years apart, they had spent the whole day together and now his absence was an itchy sensation inside of him. He couldn’t relax, because after the food was ready he was going back to him and they still had an hour drive ahead of them, but when they were together a big part of his mental power went to checking on what Peter was doing, saying, thinking, feeling.

He sighed, remembering a date they’d had in high school. It had gone terribly, and they had ended up fighting and screaming at each other. Chris had been shaking with fury. And then, Peter kissed him. And all of that anger and rage transformed into desire, want, need. _ This is what cocaine must feel like _, he had thought, kissing back, grabbing Peter’s hair and pulling until the wolf gasped in his mouth.

He hadn’t been wrong. His relationship with Peter had been pure passion, overpowering and irrational. An emotional rollercoaster that was always one step too close to a trainwreck. It had been irresistible, getting lost in Peter’s mouth, body, and soul. Because when they were together, nothing else mattered; he didn’t care about his father, his family, and the expectations he never felt he could fulfill. Peter Hale wouldn’t accept anything but his full attention and wasn’t shy about demanding it, rescuing him from his demons time and time again. Peter hardly needed to demand it, thought. Something about him pulled Chris in, absorbing him, mesmerizing him, changing the axis of his whole universe.

It was different now, of course. Their love was eighteen years in the past and Chris had come to love Victoria. His wife had been the love of his life, and it had more value than his love for Peter, because it had taken effort, time. They had built their marriage on a foundation of respect and affection. Love hadn’t been their objective, but it had bloomed nonetheless.

And yet.

Chris may have loved Victoria, but he still wasn’t free of Peter’s pull. It was pure intensity, and their hatred flared as powerfully as love had once upon a time.

He wanted to break the wolf, open him up with his bare hands and―

Chris didn’t even know. Maybe a part of him wanted to mend his wounds, to put Peter back together, as he used to do. Maybe he wanted to destroy him, once and for all, or maybe it was because he hated him, or maybe it was because he loved the man he used to be, before.

“There you go, sweetheart,” said the waitress.

Her words brought him back to the real world. The one where Peter was his sister’s killer and had become a monster. And nothing else.

Chris had to remind himself of that again when he reached the bedroom door, food in hand and heart in his throat. Thinking about his feelings for Peter had been a tactical mistake, leaving him raw and vulnerable. It had made him yearn for the wolf’s closeness, for any comfort he could get.

Victoria was dead, their daughter was barely speaking to him, and Chris was drowning in pain, grief, loneliness. He hadn’t felt this adrift in years… not since he was just a teenager, lost and withdrawn. And Chris couldn’t forget that the only person who had made him feel anything, who had rescued him, was inside that motel room.

He put the food on the nightstand, as Peter was still showering. And he waited.

Peter came out naked, rubbing his hair with a towel and stopping in his tracks when he saw Chris’ eyes.

Peter was still beautiful, as much as he had changed. The boy he had loved once had been lean and pretty, while the man in front of him was muscular and handsome. And for some damn reason, Chris couldn’t resist either one. Something about him was always uniquely Peter and it called to him like a siren song.

They were doing this. They both hated each other and knew it was a terrible idea, but that wouldn’t stop them. It was just a question of who would take the first step.

Chris broke first. He was the one to get close and grab Peter’s neck, the one that kissed him, brutal and ruthless. Peter answered, responsive as ever, and his human nails sank into his skin, leaving trails of red. It was aggressive and cruel. It was wrong, an enormous mistake. And yet, regret couldn’t touch him, not yet.

Not while he held Peter Hale, not when he got to kiss him and bite him, to throw him onto the bed and take what he wanted. Not when, for the first time since Victoria’s death, Chris wasn’t completely hollow inside.

They didn’t last long, but it wasn’t about that. It was about Peter’s moans, how he arched into Chris’ touch and the taste of his neck against his lips, his pulse trapped between Chris’ teeth while he climaxed.

“Get off me,” said Peter the moment it was over, while Chris was still flying in the afterglow.

Peter’s voice was strained, and Chris obeyed, following him with his eyes while the wolf closed the bathroom door behind him. The sound made his heart pang, but Chris got up off bed and fixed his clothes. Without a word, resentment taking over, he took the food with him and went back to the car.

Peter didn’t come down for ten minutes, and when he did, he looked pale, shell-shocked. The low neck of the shirt showed his shoulders, wounds still bleeding. Chris threw the food at him and pushed the accelerator.

They had at least another hour of travel ahead of them and Chris wanted to get away from Peter as soon as possible.

Neither of them uttered a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fourth chapter!  
In the next one we'll see why did Peter react that way, Jackson confronting him about what he discovered in the last chapter and it's probable that Allison will make an appearence. So, you know. If I'm late again that's why, ;)


	5. A shoulder to cry on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So how much of it is true, then? Because you know, maybe you forgot to tell me something else before sending me to do your dirty work.”_  
_“Everything is true,” said Peter, shaking. “All of what I told you is true. Yes, Christopher is the other father, but that is irrelevant. It doesn’t change the fact that my sons were attacked in their first living week and I had to bury them, just to find out that one of them is still out there. It doesn’t change_ anything_!”_
> 
> Peter is on the edge of a breakdown and has a lot of explaining to do.  
(Jackson is a magnet for grieving people, but he also makes a mean nacho sauce.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm late, but at least I got good grades in both the papers that took up my writing time! The chapter is extra long, so I hope it makes up for the wait.
> 
> Thanks to Rhysiana for being an amazing beta, even if I still write Porsche wrong. In a fic where Jackson is a main character. I would be lost without her, xD
> 
> If you want to get drunk, take a shot everytime Peter lies to himself and uses the thought of getting Achilles back as an emotional crutch. Believe me, after five chapters it'll do the trick.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I added a tag about panic attacks because Peter has a lot of them, more than I expected. Also, the "Past Atempted Rape/Non-Con" makes reference to Jackson attacking Allison in Season Two, but Matt was actually in control of his body. It's discussed in this chapter.

Peter was still in the shower when Jackson arrived, sooner than he had expected him to. Peter had told the teenager that he would be out until dawn and yet, there he was, first thing in the morning. School hadn’t even started yet, for fuck’s sake.

It had been a bad night. Peter had arrived to his apartment around seven and gone immediately to bed, but he hadn’t gotten much sleep. He’d woken up every couple of hours, panting and covered in cold sweat, shaking like a leaf. It was to be expected, after such a panic attack. His mind had been racing and nightmares had been a constant throughout the night.

Because he’d had sex with Argent, whose family had burned everything Peter had. And yet, it had also been Christopher, the man he had loved once. And still loved.

Which was, of course, the trigger of the panic attack: that thought breaking through his afterglow, while Christopher peppered kisses on his neck in the midst of his own climax.

_ I still love him, I’ve never stopped loving him, and I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to. _

It had been an Earth-shattering realization, after all that time. After everything. After thinking Christopher was a thing of the past.

And he was, of course, because as always, Peter’s feelings were unrequited. Christopher had never loved him and wasn’t about to start now, just because he was lonely and needed somewhere to stick his dick.

He had been Peter’s first. First time, first love, first heart-break. It had been a waste, giving so many pieces of himself to someone who didn’t want them, but as much as he wished he could delete him from his life, Christopher had marked him. Like cattle, like an animal. Peter had been his in body, heart, and soul, and it had been all for nothing. In return, he had only gotten tears, regret, and two graves.

But one of them was empty.

Achilles was still out there and Jackson may be holding the key to get his son back. The only piece of Christopher he had ever gotten in return, and the only one that mattered.

He jumped out of the shower and put on his bathrobe, hurrying to the living room. There was a possibility, as small as it was, that he could get his son back that same day. In comparison, Argent was nothing.

In the living room, Jackson was pacing. Peter’s own anxiety had hidden the tides of anger rolling from him, an earthy and spicy smell that hung in the air like a threat, a bomb about to go off. Seeing him at last, the teenager shook the file over his head.

“I have a lot of fucking questions, Hale. First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, _ how in the fuck _? And third, you shouldn’t lie to the only person trying to fucking help you!”

“Not really a question,” said Peter, eyes locked on the file. “So you’ve read it already.”

“Browsed it,” said Jackson, shifty. “To see if it was the right one. And the moment I open it, I see Mr. Argent is listed as the father! Argent like the hunters.”

“Well, it wasn’t going to be Argent like the plumbers,” answered Peter, tense.

“Don’t bullshit me! You lied to me, asshole.”

“I didn’t _ lie _, I just didn’t give you all the information. Information you have no right to, by the way, since this is really none of your business.”

Jackson snorted without any humor, sharp and invigorated by the fight. Peter didn’t know if he could handle it any longer, not when he was already on edge, when he could still feel Christopher’s hands on his skin and the answer to his son’s mystery was right there, taunting him.

“So how much of it is true, then? Because you know, maybe you forgot to tell me something else before sending me to do your dirty work.”

“Everything is true,” said Peter, shaking. “All of what I told you is true. Yes, Christopher is the other father, but that is irrelevant. It doesn’t change the fact that my sons were attacked in their first living week and I had to bury them, just to find out that one of them is still out there. It doesn’t change _ anything _!”

Jackson looked at him, crossing his arms and not backing down any.

“Yeah, it may not be any of my business, but I’m not giving you shit until you tell me everything. Because if Mr. Argent killed his own children to hide your affair then don’t count me in, I’m bailing before he decides to kill me too.”

“You _ idiot _, it wasn’t Chris!”

Jackson sat on the couch, arms still crossed. With a sigh, Peter brushed his own wet hair out of his face and focused on breathing for a couple of seconds, trying to keep himself under control. Finally, he sat beside the teenager and nodded.

“Christopher and I meet each other in high school. The Argents had just moved to town and we weren’t supposed to even look at each other. Beacon Hills was active enough to merit both wolves and hunters living in it, but that didn’t mean Argents and Hales got along any better then than now. We were careful not to even share space. And then, we got assigned as lab partners.”

Jackson huffed, incredulous.

“Come on, what are the odds?”

“If you think Harris is bad… you’re totally right, he is the worst. But our Chemistry teacher wasn’t any better. He noticed that we avoided each other, so he decided to fuck with us. The basketball team had gotten some of the funding usually reserved for the Science Club and I was the star player, so he punished me for it.

“At first we fought and sabotaged each other, but it wasn’t feasible in the long run. I needed a good grade if I wanted to play on the team and his father didn’t take kindly to failure. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks, knowing Gerard. So we made a truce and learned to work together. The story isn’t hard to figure out afterwards. He wanted to piss off his father and I wanted to rebel against my sister, so we started seeing each other in secret.”

Peter trailed off, the memories from those days soft and shiny, like old photographs. He still remembered the first time the hunter had smiled at him, after their truce. Peter had mocked the teacher’s toupee and Christopher had snorted, his blonde hair turning gold by the mid-morning light and his blue eyes glowing with amusement, a tiny upwards curve to his usually stern mouth. His left eye was surrounded by purple that day and Peter had no way of knowing it wasn’t from a hunt, but he suspected. And in that vulnerable moment he had fallen a little for that boy. The drizzle before the storm that would end up destroying him.

He had been so very stupid back then, so convinced that Chris actually loved him, that he meant something to the hunter. He should have known better, and his idiocy had cost him dearly.

“It grew from there and, after high school, we both went to Stanford and lived together for two years. And then Gerard decided to marry him off to Victoria, so he left. Got married, had Allison, all of that.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t explain how did you had children. That’s not how the male body works.”

“It’s a Hale thing,” said Peter, shrugging. “We can also learn to make a full shift into wolves. The male pregnancy aspect it’s not that impressive, there must be another couple of families capable of it in just the United States. And no, it doesn’t work unless you are a Hale by blood, so you won’t get pregnant any time soon, relax.”

Jackson did breathe easier after that confirmation, letting himself collapse on the couch.

“So you were pregnant when he left? I thought your kids were younger than us.”

“No. He came back once, for my graduation. It was a full moon and my family couldn’t come, not with the little ones, so I was alone. He fucked me and then he left, going back to his wife and daughter,” said Peter, resentment permeating his voice. “I came back home and a couple of weeks later I found out I was pregnant. He never knew.”

“I can’t believe no one found out,” said Jackson, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Allison and Scott couldn’t keep it a secret for even _ a month _.”

“Yes, well, we were smarter than Allison and Scott. Knew how to hide things from adults. My sister was too busy to notice, anyway, and the Argents… well, they would have never thought Christopher would debase himself like that, fucking an animal.”

That seemed to connect something in Jackson’s brain, since he became instantly indignant.

“God, he’s such a fucking hypocrite! So werewolves are rabid monsters and he’s right to kill us just in case, but he gets away with dating one for, like, four years? Come on.”

“He’s a hunter, Jackson. Hypocrisy is their way of life. I don’t know how he justifies it to himself, to be honest. I assume something inane like, _ ‘he wasn’t like the other werewolves,’ _ because he isn’t that original.”

“Oh, come on! You’ve _ killed _people. Tons of people. You killed his sister, for fuck’s sake.”

“That was later. And I’m sure it just proved his opinion that all werewolves are one step away from murdering everyone.”

“Well, as someone he probably wants to shoot, let me personally thank you for that.”

“Please, I’m sure your charming personality would have done the trick on its own.”

Jackson snorted, sceptical.

“I doubt it, since he dated _ you _. And then his wife, who was also a bitchy psychopath. It’s like he has a type.”

“You’re too young for him, I’m pretty sure, but don’t let that stop you. You never know until you pull down the fly and check for yourself!” said Peter in a cheery voice.

“You’re gross,” Jackson said with a disgusted expression. “And what were you doing with him yesterday, then?”

“I told you, he dragged me into a hunt. Harpies, to be specific. They had kidnapped a little hunter boy and I spent an amazing day in the car with my ex-boyfriend, smelling supernaturally odorus shit and getting insulted. Believe me, I would have preferred to be here, searching for my son, instead of rescuing hunter spawn just to get slurs thrown at me by a four-year-old.”

“So, wait. You dated and Mr. Argent _ hates you _, but he still came to you for help?”

“Of course he did, I’m very useful,” said Peter, amused at Jackson’s arched eyebrows, completely unimpressed.

“Not that bad of a break up, then. I sure as fuck wouldn’t go to my ex out of nowhere looking for help, even if my life was on the line.”

Peter swallowed, uncomfortable. There was no way he was going to answer that honestly. No way he was going to tell Jackson how it felt, Christopher getting out of bed in the middle of the night, telling him in a monotone that he was transferring to Berkeley, because that’s where his fiancée was studying and they were going to be married within a month.

He hadn’t known there was a fiancée. He hadn’t known that Chris had been doing the paperwork for transfer and had already started to pack his things. He hadn’t known anything; he’d just been a stupid kid.

_ I don’t understand _ , he had said, like a fucking idiot. Voice shaky and tears about to fall. _ I thought… _

_ I have a duty, Peter. And I’m a hunter. We both knew that we didn’t have a future. _

The next year was still blurry, just partying until getting sick and a line of empty hookups while he tried to mend what was left of his heart. It had been hard, when he couldn’t even talk about it. Even his pain had to be a secret, no matter how much it hurt.

No matter how much he was falling apart.

“As bad as they always are, I assume. Enough to make things awkward even if I hadn’t murdered his sister, but then again, Argent is a slave to duty and he did want to save that stupid boy.”

“I guess it’s as good as an ice-breaker as any other. _ ‘Hey, us dating in high school sure was crazy, but what about me murdering your sister in cold blood right in front of your daughter? Isn’t that crazier? Haha, good times.’ _”

Peter just looked at him for a couple of seconds, baffled. And then he laughed, because the whole situation was fucking ridiculous and Peter could just _ see _Argent’s face if he heard such a thing.

Also, it got Jackson looking at him like he was insane, which was a plus. The kid was getting too cozy around him, he should remember that Peter was an unhinged mass murderer and, as such, deserved some respect.

“Do you want to pry about anything else or is this enough? Not to be rude, but I would like to find my son as soon as possible.”

Jackson gave him the file.

“I still can’t believe you fucked Allison’s dad. That’s _ so _weird.”

“Adults have a life outside of babysitting you, Jackson. Deal with it.”

“Yeah, but still…”

Jackson stopped talking. Peter barely noticed. His world had shrunk to that picture. He traced his firstborn’s chubby face with shaky fingers. Peter had always remembered him uglier, his memories tainted by his dead body, clammy skin covered in black veins like scorch marks. Deaton hadn’t let him hold his tiny body while he died, saying that the wolfsbane would burn him, so the last time he had seen his firstborn were the couple of seconds between his death and the druid closing the box where he would eternally rest.

“I didn’t know there was a picture,” he said, sounding far away and tiny.

Achilles he remembered well. He had lived longer, so Peter had gotten to look at him and commit every single thing to his memory. The pink mouth, the blonde fuzz on his head, the barely there eyebrows, the tiny fists and feet… It broke his heart, looking at him, and again he wanted nothing more than to go to Talia and scream at her for taking his baby away.

“I’m sorry,” said Jackson, an ocean away.

“What for?”

“Your loss?”

Peter closed the file, breathing irregularly. His fingers were grasping the folder on their own, bending the covers. Peter looked at it for several seconds, trying to get his control back.

“There was another sticker on this file,” said finally, tracing the leftover glue with his pinky finger.

“Oh! Yeah. I had to take it off to put it on the fake one. It just said _ Unnamed, Hale _.”

“I should have known,” he said, hitting his forehead, sudden and strong enough to bruise. “Of course they share a file, _ of course they do _.”

“Woah! Dude, it’s okay, I handled it,” said Jackson, grabbing his wrist before he hit himself again.

“You shouldn’t have to fix my mistakes!”

“Yeah, something tells me this has nothing to do with that,” said the teenager, on edge.

Peter breathed for a full minute, counting the seconds until he could push his feelings down, and down, and down. Out of sight, out of mind.

“You may be right, even if you are nosy brat.”

“Don’t even, you were just gushing out about my greatness. Which to be honest, I fucking deserve.”

“Be that as it may, you should leave for class before your ego explodes all over my couch.”

“Without finding out what happened to Achilles? No way. I’m in it now.”

Peter looked at him, surprised. Yes, they had built a friendly rapport, enough that he would trust Jackson with all that information about his babies, but he hadn’t expected him to get invested. Jackson Whittemore wasn’t the kind of person who cared about things that didn’t bring him some kind of benefit, and Peter’s search for his son had nothing to do with him.

“You’re very tiresome.”

“And you named your kid Achilles,” fired back Jackson, judging the shit out of him.

“Oh, shut up, Achilles is a perfectly good name.”

“In what world? It would be weird even as a middle name, but as a first one? Come on, did you want your kid to be beaten up during recess or what?”

“Jackson, this is kind of a very emotional moment for me. Could you please shut the fuck up before I pull your tongue out myself?”

The teenager huffed, but let it go. Thank goodness.

There wasn’t that much in the file, to Peter’s chagrin. Mostly things he already knew, data about his pregnancy and the birthing process, measurements of the babies… His firstborn was eight pounds and twenty ounces; Achilles was a round five. Peter had forgotten about that, if he had ever known.

It wasn’t until the last page that he found something useful. A throwaway line about his son being put out for adoption after the pack bond had been severed.

“It has to be in Talia’s files, then. If he was adopted, she probably carried out the process herself.”

“Didn’t we know he was adopted? I mean, it’s not like they could just drop him in an apartment with some cash, he would need new―caregivers.”

Peter knew that Jackson had been about to say parents and was grateful that he hadn’t. The mere thought was enough to drive him into another rampage, no matter how true it was.

“Yes, but I was working under the assumption that Talia would have found some supernatural family willing to take care of him without leaving a paper trail. I never thought she would give him to _ humans _.”

“Why not? Isn’t he human? It was probably smarter to take him away from the supernatural if he was supposed to be a secret.”

“It’s hard to explain,” sighed Peter. “Yes, Achilles was born human, but he still has a were father, so magic is in his genetic makeup. It’s not significant enough to make him a werewolf, but he would be stronger and faster than kids his age, maybe he could even develop some other supernatural abilities, like premonition. Leaving him with humans? That’s just reckless, and Talia wasn’t reckless. If Achilles was adopted, he was adopted by a family with a connection to the supernatural, under the eye of someone she trusted. And she would have taken care of it herself.”

“So, what’s the next step?”

“The next step is going to her former office and get the cases she worked on.”

“You know those are private, right? No one is just going to give them to you!”

“Sure they will, she was my sister. And more important, no one knows why Kate Argent burned us all alive,” said Peter, placing a hand over his heart and putting on an afflicted expression, voice shaky. “Maybe it had something to do with Talia’s work; she was the District Attorney, after all. I just… I just need to know for sure. Derek is having such a hard time, I’m sure answers would lighten the burden.”

Jackson was looking at him, completely aghast.

“Oh my God, you’re a monster. Are you really going to use _ the fire _?”

“Of course I will. It happened to me, after all, and if I want to use my trauma to get ahead, that’s my business.”

Jackson kept looking horrified, but under it there was admiration. The teen was also a fan of using everything in his power to win, so it made sense. He was starting to learn that boundaries were just the consolation prize for the losers.

Really, no matter what people said, Peter was a great influence.

“I should probably get to class,” said Jackson at last, wincing at the clock.

“You should. Will the school call your parents?”

“Ugh, no. I’m not _ five _. Oh, and I can’t come around this afternoon. If Derek asks, I’m keeping watch.”

“I’m not supposed to know that you are there―Jackson.”

“Did you forget my name?” he asked, caught somewhere between incredulous and offended.

“It’s not very memorable, to say the least.”

“Oh, shut up. It’s better than Achilles.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Jackson rolled his eyes while getting ready to leave. He had a talent for it, could even pass for a Hale. Maybe that was why Peter had almost called him Achilles.

That would have been awkward, to say the least. The lack of sleep and food with real nutrients was probably taking a toll on him. Really, he had been acting pretty irrational since he had slept with Argent. Big mistake. Of course having sex for the first time since the coma would muddle things up, especially when it was with an old lover. The moment Argent had kissed the right side of his neck, where the burns had been, Peter had been affected enough to think he was still in love with the hunter.

He needed to get a grip.

Jackson was just a tool he was using to get to Achilles, he didn’t love Christopher, and none of that truly mattered, because his only goal was to find his son. Once he did, everything would be okay.

* * *

Jackson couldn’t believe he had gotten detention. Sure, teachers were tougher on him since he wasn’t on the lacrosse team anymore, but this was ridiculous. Who cared if he skipped first period?

And yet, there he was, in detention. On top of that, he wasn’t alone, since Erica and Allison had gotten into a fistfight in the corridor. Jackson didn’t even want to know. At least Harris was in charge, which meant that he could spend the hour texting Danny without being called out, because the chemistry teacher still gave him special treatment. He wondered why, since it really didn’t seem to be a seduction thing. Jackson was pretty sure he could smell it if Harris wanted to fuck him, and he didn’t; it was more like he wanted to be friends. Which was even creepier.

Really, he and Deaton should form a club. Beacon Hills’ Creepy Creepy Creeps.

His phone informed him that Danny had sent him another text after ghosting him for a full five minutes. The dick.

_ My sister insists that is her turn to pick a movie, so our movie night has been hijacked by a thirteen-year-old. We’re watching _ Wall-E _ . _

Jackson snorted to that, because it was typical Stephany.

_ Tell your sister that her taste in movies should age accordingly and no real teenager would choose a Disney movie. _

_ She says it’s Pixar. _

_ Oh, then I guess it’s okay. _

Jackson added an emoji rolling its eyes, so no one would accuse him of being soft and letting his best friend’s little sister boss him around.

Stephany was cool. Annoying, of course, but cool. As a child he had asked for a sister of his own, but, as David had joked, Jackson was terrible at sharing and probably wouldn’t be that good of an older brother. Nancy had kissed his cheek, amused, and told him that he was more than enough work already. It had probably been for the best, as any kid that the Whittemores adopted wouldn’t truly be his sister, as they weren’t truly his parents. Jackson was better off alone.

But Danny was a great brother, so Jackson wasn’t going to whine about watching _ Wall-E _ to make Stephany happy, even if he was kind of tired of girls forcing him to watch stupid movies. Really, _ Hoosiers _was fucking great! Why did no one want to watch it?

At least it wasn’t _ The Notebook _.

The sound of Erica getting up, chair crashing to the floor, marked the end of detention. She was out of the door before Harris could do anything about it.

“Mr. Whittemore, could you straighten that out?”

Jackson really hated Harris’ obsession with him, especially when Allison could leave without a problem. But of course, most people were trying to avoid talking to her. Her aunt being a murderous psychopath had been a big deal, but then her mother had killed herself, and, as no one knew about werewolves, the whole town thought that their malicious gossip had driven Victoria Argent over the edge. Which translated into giving Allison the widest berth possible out of guilt. Lucky her.

When Jackson finally got away from the chemistry teacher and his inane attempts to talk about lacrosse, he rushed to his car. It was one of the last ones in the parking lot, with the exception of Harris’ and Allison’s. The girl was still there, tears in her eyes while she looked at her tires.

Woah.

The four of them were in tatters, long and jagged strings of rubber on the ground, too destroyed to even stick to the wheel. Erica and Isaac were vicious assholes… but really, who could blame them. Allison had tried to kill them not even two months ago and no one planned to do anything about it. Jackson understood Allison’s actions, because he got that she had been brainwashed by Gerard, and, as someone that had killed a lot of people under possession, he wasn’t exactly one to go around throwing stones at other people’s glass houses. But it wasn’t really kosher of Derek and Mr. Argent to let that one slide against the wishes of her victims.

Of course, Jackson liked Allison more than he liked the other betas, so he didn’t truly care about justice.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. He could help, yeah, but… he was pointedly avoiding Allison and for good reason. Jackson didn’t want to spend time with the huntress alone and she probably felt the same way. He should go, really. Go straight to Danny’s and watch _ Wall-E _while eating his his weight in nachos. It would be for the best.

Allison rubbed her eyes with her sleeve, trying to clean away the frustrated tears. She was wearing a green sweater with black hearts all over and the whole image was pathetic and heartbreaking.

Damn it.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked, making her jump.

“Oh! I… I don’t want to be a bother, it’s okay,” she said with a shaky smile, all dimples and obvious distress.

“You sure?”

Allison hesitated for a second, but ended up shaking her head.

“My dad isn’t in town, I have no one to call.”

“Probably for the best,” Jackson said, looking over at the car. “Pretty sure he would count this as an attack and start a war.”

“My father doesn’t want a war,” she snapped.

“No, but he is kind of overprotective, you can’t deny that.”

Allison looked down, shaking. Jackson didn’t know if it was because of fury, frustration, or sadness.

He did know that Allison had a half-brother out there, somewhere, and it was hard to pretend that he didn’t, especially when talking about Mr. Argent. Part of him wanted to tell her, both because she should know and because she would probably chew her asshole of a father up. But then Peter would skin Jackson alive and dunk him a tank of lemon juice, so he said nothing.

“Come on,” he said after a while. “I’ll drive you home.”

Allison got into the Porsche and let her head fall against the window. Jackson wanted to reprimand her, but thought better of it. She was truly a pitiful image.

The drive was just as uncomfortable as he had expected it would be. A lot was hanging between them. Things Jackson didn’t want to think about.

He was surprised when Allison gave a tiny sob.

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry. It’s just―my dad does the same thing. The drumming in the steering wheel. It used to drive my mother crazy and it reminded me… Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jackson said, because there wasn’t much he could say. Why was he always surrounded by people grieving the loss of family members? Was he some kind of magnet? “I’ll try to stop it.”

“No, it’s okay. Anything can trigger me these days. Sorry.”

“Jesus, stop apologizing. It’s not like you at all and it’s making this even more awkward.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she sighed.

Jackson should be quiet. He really should be. The problem was that he was a terrible person and really wanted to tell Allison about how her father had totally cheated on her dead mother, since the man was a fucking asshole.

Yes, he was Team Peter. Sue him. He liked the wolf better and his defenses had been in tatters that morning, his pain raw and transparent.

But he _ couldn’t _tell her about Achilles, so he needed to find something else to talk about.

“I didn’t try to rape you,” he said instead, without thinking. Like an idiot.

“Excuse you?” said Allison, recovering the sharpness that had accompanied her right after her mother’s death. The one that terrified them all.

Jackson hated himself. Why was he like this? Why would he bring that up? Fuck, he shouldn’t have offered Allison a ride in the first place. Nancy wasn’t wrong when she said he was a self-sabotaging disaster waiting to drag them all down.

“I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m saying―it wasn’t me.”

“Yeah, the kanima was driving you crazy, I know. But still, you have to understand that―”

“It’s not that,” he interrupted her. “It wasn’t me because it was _ Matt _. Using my body. I just thought you should know, but that’s it. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Ever.”

“He couldn’t take control of your human body,” said Allison, suspicious and still sharp as a surgeon’s blade.

“Says who? I should fucking know, thank you. He wanted you and you didn’t pay him any attention because he was a rat-looking insane loser, and he thought… well. I’m hot and popular, so maybe he would have a chance as… me.” Jackson swallowed, squeezing the steering wheel and trying to put distance between himself and what had happened, rebuild his walls. “You weren’t interested, since you’ve terrible taste, so he took his chance to have you without consequences. To him, at least. I doubt any judge would have reacted well to me explaining that yes, my body raped you, but I was being possessed.”

Allison had gotten paler and paler as he talked, and placed a hand on his arm.

“Jackson―”

He shook it off like it was burning.

“Whatever. It’s not important, I― I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I don’t even know why I brought it up. Where did you say you lived now?”

There was a beat of silence before Allison gave him directions. It was downtown, on a block close to Danny’s house. At least he wouldn’t have to drive long afterwards… but he would prefer to drop her off as soon as possible.

“Thank you,” said Allison.

“What?”

“You stopped. That’s why I’ve never said anything, because it was clear you weren’t in control, but if what you’re saying is true, then you took it back to stop him. Thank you.”

“Don’t _ thank me _. Fuck. Of course I―look. I couldn’t control the kanima, but when he took over my body I had a fighting chance, more or less. And what was I supposed to do instead? Sit back and let it happen?”

“You could have.”

Jackson huffed, starting to get angry.

“Okay, I know you think I’m a douche and a terrible person and I can’t really deny it, but I’m not a monster. I’m an asshole, and selfish, and vicious, but not a fucking rapist. It’s that clear?”

Allison nodded once, and then looked down.

“I feel like I should apologize about my grandfather, now.”

“Don’t. That’s not on you and I’ve already told you to stop apologizing.”

She gave him a bleary smile, tears in her eyes.

“Sometimes it feels like my family is the worst thing to ever happened to this town.”

Jackson shrugged.

“It is in the top three, that’s for sure,” he replied, unperturbed by Allison’s frown. “Your aunt burned a whole family alive, your father is constantly terrorizing everyone, your mother tried to kill McCall just for dating you, your grandfather tortured most of us, and _ you _also tried to kill us. It’s not a great track record.”

He expected Allison to get angry, to scream at him, to try to kill him or to make him stop the car and walk home, but she had froze all the sudden.

“What?”

“What?” said Jackson back, confused.

“What did you say my mother did?”

Jackson looked at her in doubt, thinking back over his words. They were harsh, but not confusing.

“That your mother was a bitch, basically.”

“You said she tried to kill Scott.”

“Yeah? That’s what happened. That’s how she got bitten, remember? I know it must be tough―”

“No. Mom tried to kill Derek and he retaliated too harshly and―”

“Oh my God, they didn’t tell you,” Jackson said, understanding dawning. “Fuck my life. I can’t believe they fucking lied to you about this.”

“Tell me,” she said harshly. “Tell me now.”

So he did. Better to talk about that than about what had happened in the locker room that day. Or about her lost half-brother. Or about _ Lydia _. Fuck, that would be bad.

“I can’t believe they lied to me. I can’t believe they keep lying to me!” she cried, lashing out against his Porsche.

“Woah! Leave my car alone, I’m the one that’s telling you the truth!”

“How am I supposed to deal with this?” Allison asked, voice broken. “She was my mom and she died trying to kill my boyfriend.”

“I’m not the best person to ask, you know? I’m still trying to figure out what I’m allowed to feel about my real parents, there’s no way I can offer any help.”

Allison looked down, shaking, her hair hiding her face. She was about to have a breakdown, fuck. Jackson tried to remember what the psychologist the Whittemores had forced him to see used to say; he had only lasted two weeks, but the old man had given him enough platitudes for a lifetime.

“Our parents are never perfect,” he said, stilted. “They are humans and yeah, sometimes they fuck things up, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love them. Okay, so Victoria was a human supremacist and a murderer, that sucks, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t… your mom? And no one is asking you to hate her, we just ask that you don’t follow in her steps and try to kill us all for being werewolves. Apart from that, it’s your business. We weren’t the ones she raised and―baked cookies for? That’s a thing mothers do, right?”

“You have a mom, Jackson,” Allison said, with a weak, watery laugh.

He breathed easier at seeing she was buying that load of bullshit. Thank goodness Allison was a sentimental dummy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nancy in the kitchen unless she was talking to the maid. She was more of the _ ‘play tennis while I scream at you until you cry’ _ kind of mom.”

“Why tennis?” Allison asked, probably not knowing what to say about the screaming and crying, which he made sound worse than it was, if he was being honest.

“She was a pro before she injured her knee. She took a couple of years off and tried the whole housewife thing, but she hated every second, so now she’s a trainer.”

“My mom was like that,” she whispered. “She enjoyed being around the house and in some places she didn’t bother getting a job, but if we were staying for long she needed something to do. Sometimes it was teaching, sometimes working with clothes… Once she got a gig as roller coaster tester.”

Jackson laughed at that, because the idea of Victoria Argent, a psycho colder than the Arctic, testing roller coasters straight-faced and without twitching was hilarious.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was some kind of bet between my parents. Mom hated amusement parks because they don’t teach any real life skills.”

“What’s the use of a roller coaster if it doesn’t teach you how to do your taxes?” said Jackson, amused.

“God, she was insane,” she laughed, sobbing. “I miss her so much.”

Jackson didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t muster the energy to come up with more bullshit.

“Will you be alright on your own? I’m sure Lydia would come and hang out with you.”

“No, thank you. Lydia is having dinner with her dad tonight. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Oh, right. I forgot,” he lied.

“Is she still angry at you?”

“Of course not. You sat with us at lunch today, remember?”

“Yes, and you didn’t talk to each other.”

He and Lydia didn’t really talk anymore. They kissed and they fucked, but they didn’t talk. It was… weird. And uncomfortable, painful, but Jackson didn’t know how to fix it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Allison said after a second. “But if you need to talk… I want us to be friends, Jackson.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I know that you were trying to get to Scott, but we were friends. I miss it.”

“Most people would agree that I’m a shitty friend,” he joked, drumming on the steering wheel before catching himself.

“Yes. But are those people your friends or just people you hang out with because of high school politics?”

“My only friend is Danny, but I’m sure that he’d be happy to tell you I suck.”

“I doubt that.”

_ Yeah, but he knows it’s true. He has to, because he isn’t stupid _, Jackson thought.

“I was actually going to his house for a movie night, so if you want to join…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to crash it,” she said, awkwardly.

“His little sister is already crashing it, so don’t worry about that. We are watching _ Wall-E _, though, so I get if you want to pass.”

“I love _ Wall-E _ . _ Wall-E _ is great,” she said with a little smile.

“Cool. You get to taste my amazing nacho sauce.”

“You’re making sauce?” Allison asked, arching her eyebrows.

“I make _ great _sauce, thank you very much. The trick is using real cheddar and adding the right amount of cayenne pepper.”

“Have you tried it with paprika?”

“Not really, why mess with perfection?”

“You should try it. There is nothing like the Ancient Argent Cheese Sauce.”

Jackson frowned at her.

“Are you trying to pry away my title of awesome sauce maker? Because I warn you, the Mahealanis are a loyal bunch and won’t turn against me.”

“We’ll see about that,” she smiled. “I come from a long line of great cooks, just so you know.”

“There we go with the cooking elitism. Just because no one in my family knows how to hold a pan doesn’t mean you’ve got an advantage. I’m a self-made cook, so I get extra points.”

“I think Danny’s family will be the judge of that,” Allison said, challenge sparkling in her eyes.

“Bring it on, Argent. But don’t even look at their dog, Captain Miss Pirate is mine and I’ll fight for that bitch.”

Allison laughed, head thrown back and tears forgotten, and Jackson smiled to himself. At least he could do _ some _things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the wait was worth it!  
In the next chapter, Peter gets to meet Mr. Whittemore and to see Chris again, so you'll get Jackson's three dads.


	6. Facing the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_What happened when the center of your existence stopped making sense? He had returned from the dead to find his son, had lived those last months trying everything to reach that end. There was nothing in the world he cared about except Achilles. Even the love he felt for his nephew felt tired and worthless, which was probably true. Peter had nothing._"
> 
> Peter finds an unexpected lead.  
(Jackson has to introduce his best friend to Peter, which is as weird as you think.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! A new chapter with more than 7k words. Like an insane person. I assume you see why it takes me so long to update, xD
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta, Rhysiana. Without her this fic wouldn't exist <3
> 
> By the way, the time line of this fic makes no sense. In first place, it's happening around February of 2020. I know that the show is from 2011 but I don't care, so there is that. The February part is because I misunderstood the time line of the show and I thought it started in September instead of January, so... yeah. Too late to change it now! I hope that you are not overly confused because of it and it doesn't affect your enjoyment of the fic.
> 
> PD: If anyone wonders what Jackson is cooking in this chapter, is a recipe I found in the Internet. I've no idea if it's any good, but here you have it: https://cookieandkate.com/peanut-soba-noodle-slaw-recipe/

Peter browsed the files while the cute paralegal looked through the giant boxes. He had, of course, gotten access to Talia’s old cases, but David Whittemore had insisted in having someone from the firm check it first to discern what he was allowed to read. It was weird, knowing that Talia wasn’t the District Attorney anymore, that she had been replaced by someone else. The irony of that replacement being Jackson’s father wasn’t lost on him.

The grating part was that Whittemore acted like he and Talia were best friends, which Peter didn’t buy for one moment. His sister had never mentioned David Whittemore, even on the few occasions she talked about her work. If they were really friends, Peter would have heard about him a long time ago. The only reason he hadn’t called the District Attorney on his bluff was because that fake friendship had been useful in convincing him to let Peter snoop around Talia’s work.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hale, but I don’t think I can let you read any of these files,” said the paralegal, closing the box.

Peter smiled, infusing some sadness into his gaze and taking a small breath. Child's play.

“That’s okay, Emma. I know that the priority is to uphold the law and protect the privacy of the people of Beacon Hills. Talia… she would want it this way, even if I don’t find answers.”

Emma ate it up, smiling sadly at him before starting to look through another box. Maybe he should sleep with her after he found what he needed. Having sex with someone else would probably be good for him, would wash away the lingering presence of Christopher on his skin, would erase his touch. It hadn’t worked in college, as much as he had tried, but things were different now.  _ Peter  _ was different now.

With a sigh, he closed another file and let his head fall on his arms, mentally counting to six.

_ Four… Five… _

“Are you okay, Mr. Hale?”

_ Bingo. _

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a bit overwhelming, seeing all these boxes, I… I didn’t think it would be this hard. Maybe I’m just wasting both our times.”

“We could narrow the search, if you like? Do you remember anything at all?”

Peter pretended to think about it as hard as he could for a couple of moments.

“No, nothing with substance… But… She may have mentioned something about Gerard Argent? It’s not much, but…”

“It’s as good a place to start as any other,” she said, encouraging.

“It’s something very small, actually, probably a dead end, but… Talia talked a lot about it at the time, because she was friends with Alan Deaton. Some kind of attack on his clinic. It was written off as vandalism, but she thought it was a hate crime and suspected the Argents. Argent Arms had a reputation for dealing weapons to some dubious associates before Gerard’s son took over. She couldn’t accuse them directly, but she did look their alibis up. I think she started keeping a closer eye on them around then, but stopped talking about it with us.”

“That’s very good, do you remember the year?”

“God, I don’t know, it was a long time ago. I traveled the world after college, so I wasn’t around much… It was definitely before I visited Brazil, so it had to be at the beginning of 2003. Between February and May.”

“Okay, I’ll see if we have anything that old. Jeez, that’s like, seventeen years.”

_ Sixteen _ _,_ thought Peter, nodding along. His son was still sixteen, he would turn seventeen at the beginning of March. It wasn’t far away, in any case. To think of how much time he had lost hurt more than he could explain.

It was dizzying, thinking about it. In his mind Achilles was the same as the last time he had held him, but that had been so long ago… His son was probably driving already, looking at colleges. Peter shook his head, trying not to think about it. He didn’t have any use for regret.

Emma left to look for the old files, but Peter wasn’t alone for long, as David Whittemore appeared to check on him, sporting a politician smile.

“I heard you two got a lead.”

“Maybe, it’s all up in the air at the moment,” said Peter, striking the balance between tired and hopeful.

“Come on, you need to relax a little, I’ll take you out for lunch.”

“That’s not necessary,” he said without letting panic bleed into his voice. “I’m sure you have a lot to do, I know how demanding your position can be.”

“Nonsense, I think we both need a bit of fresh air,” he said, still smiling and taking Peter’s coat from the hook. “Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”

Fuck him. Fuck him  _ to Hell _ _._ There was no way of getting out of it without looking like an asshole and he was depending on Whittemore’s good will to go through Talia’s papers, so antagonising him wasn’t an option. Just at the moment he had made his move for the files he was actually interested in, he got dragged away by that fake asshole.

“Okay, then. I’ve been meaning to go to that new sushi place, do you know if it’s any good?” Peter asked, without letting his anger bleed into his face.

“I’ve never been myself, actually, but my wife swears by it.”

Peter gave him one of his better fake smiles, careful to keep the sad undertone. He had to be polite and charming, but still sad and pathetic, so the District Attorney couldn’t deny his request without feeling like shit. It wasn’t a difficult act, but it was tiring. He missed the days were he could be an arrogant trust fund baby just dumb enough for his marks to take advantage.  _ That  _ was a fun role. He had gotten a lot of money with that particular character, on top of the occasional Rolex and other presents from the ones that thought they were seducing him.

Exchanging a casino in Monaco for a sushi place in Beacon Hills was an embarrassing downfall, but needs must. And finding Achilles would be better than the money and artwork he got in his usual haunts.

Except maybe the time he stole that gorgeous Monet, but that had been one of the artist’s lost works, so it didn’t count.

The sushi place wasn’t anything to write home about, especially for Peter, who wasn’t an uncultured hick and knew the real deal, but it was good enough that he decided to add it to his take-out rotation.

Now that they were out of the office, David Whittemore had lost some of his confidence and easy charm, which was for the best, because both were fake and weren’t endearing him to Peter. The lawyer seemed nervous, pursing his lips and straightening his shirt every couple of minutes. Peter ignored it, since he didn’t really care for his comfort and feared that he was going to try and make a move on him, which would be very awkward when he saw Jackson next. Whittemore didn’t show any outward signs of attraction, but men deep enough in the closet usually didn’t, all the little tells outweighed by fear.

The smell of his nerves was annoying, though.

“So… I knew Talia really well,” he said again, the same frustrating intensity in every word.

“I’m sure you did,” Peter answered, because grabbing him by the hair and hitting his face against the table until he spit teeth was bound to attract some attention. Peter had complicated feelings towards his sister at the moment and would be happy to take them out on David Whittemore’s face.

Jackson would probably be angry, though. And he was capable of going to Argent with the information about Achilles in revenge, so it was better to keep the little brat happy.

“She told me certain things that… well, from a person that didn’t have such a good head on her shoulders, I would have driven them personally to Eichen House.”

That was unexpected. Peter acknowledged his curiosity by arching one eyebrow and not eating the piece of sushi he had just taken.

“I― Well. This is― Please, don’t drive  _ me  _ to Eichen House, but I know what you are.”

“Is that a  _ Twilight  _ joke?” Peter asked, ready to throw hands.

“What? No! But,” he looked around the place, before whispering very quietly, “I know about the werewolf thing.”

Well. That was a twist.

“Do you.”

“Yes, Talia told me about it. At first I didn’t believe it, of course, but then her face― changed. It’s difficult to deny that kind of evidence.”

“I would imagine,” said Peter, still not confirming anything.

“I’ve tried to keep away from that kind of thing since the fire, as it’s clear it’s dangerous and I have a family to think about, but… I think― I think that something is wrong with my son.”

“Why?”

Whittemore started to list things, mostly related to the time his son had been a kanima. It was strange, of course, and Peter had wondered how Jackson had managed to explain away things like  _ dying _ .

“I’ve been trying to find out what it could be, but… I just don’t know, I don’t have that kind of resources, I can’t help him. I’ve been trying to keep it under wraps, but my wife isn’t stupid, she knows something is wrong and Jackson― God, Jackson is so difficult, he always has been, but if he keeps refusing to obey… I fear he may be putting himself in danger, what if there are hunters in town?”

“There are,” confirmed Peter. “But there is an agreement of peace at the moment, so I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“I need help. And you are the only Hale left.”

“What about Derek?”

“He was a  _ fugitive _ ,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t want him around my kid.”

Peter sighed, annoyed even if he appreciated the irony. He didn’t want to throw Jackson under the bus, but David could be his chance to find Achilles, in a way. His brain told him to do it, since he knew it was the smart choice… but Jackson was pack. Peter was a treacherous asshole, but he didn’t betray his pack. He had learned that lesson the hard way, after getting dumped and impregnated by a hunter just to have his sons murdered. It had been very educational.

“Look, I’m not the person you should be asking this. Talk to your son, he’s the one that has to share this with you.”

“You don’t understand, he’ll never confide in me. Our relationship… isn’t good. He doesn’t trust us.”

Peter sighed.

“As someone who was a troubled teenager myself, let me give you a bit of advice: you need to win his trust. If you don’t, when he has a real problem he won’t go to you and it’ll get worse. Case in point, whatever it’s happening to him. And now he’s dealing with the supernatural, which is as far from the kiddie pool as you can get. There isn’t much room for mistakes, so talk to him as soon as possible.”

“Why can’t  _ you  _ tell me?” asked David, annoyed.

“Because it’s not my place. And if I tell you, I take away his chance of telling you himself. Being supernatural is one of deepest secrets a creature can have; it’s the kind of thing you have to tell yourself, trust me on this.”

David was clearly frustrated, but sighed, getting that Peter wasn’t going to tell him anything else. Which was good, because if he had taken away Peter’s permission to go through Talia’s files he would have been forced to knock the District Attorney out, stash him somewhere, and go back to the office pretending that he had indigestion and needed to go home. It wouldn’t be difficult, but Peter wasn’t in the mood.

“I have to ask, what are you actually looking for in the office?”

“You don’t,” Peter assured him, finally eating his spicy tuna roll. Leaving one last piece of food untouched during a conversation was a good way of controlling it, since the moment you ate it marked the end. It wasn’t the most subtle form of manipulation, but it usually worked. “Just let me do my thing and I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of hours.”

Whittemore was visibly dubious, clearly wanting more information, but Peter was using his cold stare and he ended up breaking under it, sighing again.

“We should go back to the office,” said Whittemore, checking the time on his phone.

Child’s play.

* * *

When Peter closed the last file, the dread that had been building in the last hour reached its peak and then deflated, leaving only numbness behind. It was a shaky kind of numbness, one that would fall apart at any moment.

There was nothing in Talia’s files. No trace of Achilles or any other adoption process in the year 2003. Of course, it made sense, since she had been the District Attorney, not a family lawyer, but Peter didn’t give a shit about logic or making sense. He didn’t give a shit about anything, really. He would never find his son and couldn’t even muster enough energy to mourn him again.

What happened when the center of your existence stopped making sense? He had returned from the dead to find his son, had lived those last months trying everything to reach that end. There was nothing in the world he cared about except Achilles. Even the love he felt for his nephew felt tired and worthless, which was probably true. Peter had nothing.

Emma said something, but it didn’t really connect with him. He said something in return, sounding soft and sad, even in those moments keeping his cover. And then, Peter got up and left. Whittemore was in the hallway and made a gesture to go and talk to him, sporting a concerned expression, but he shook his head without stopping. Peter didn’t want to talk to that man, who had cared for the sister that stole Achilles from him and complained so much about having a difficult son while he was in constant agony over searching for his own.

And at any moment, Peter was going to explode. He knew it in the way he knew that the full moon approached, an instinct as natural as breathing. The elevator ride was a small eternity, the numbers changing slowly while Peter’s ears rang, overpowering everything else.

Finally, he was out of the building. The scents on the street were strong and unpleasant, almost enough to make him snap. Without thinking, he took a turn into a small alley and stood there for a couple of minutes while the numbness broke apart.

The brick broke, too, under his knuckles. The red stone was rough and broke his skin, but that didn’t stop him from hitting it again, and again, and again. Part of the wall broke off after a while. A minute, an eternity, a second. There was blood on his fist, on his jacket, on his shirt. He licked his lips and they tasted both metallic and salty. The blood had splattered onto his face, and he had started crying at some point.

It was like yet another dam broke once he tasted the salt, because then he couldn’t stop. He fell to his knees and sobbed, ugly and noisy, shaking like a leaf. He cried like he had when his firstborn had died and Deaton didn’t let him hold him one last time. Like he had cried that night, waking up to feel the absence of Achilles’ heartbeat, their packbond gone.

How many times could you lose someone and still feel that pain? How long was Peter supposed to shoulder that monumental loss, that impossible weight?

_ Buzz! _

Peter blinked, confused. He didn’t get a lot of messages and couldn’t think of a single person who would contact him. No one cared any longer. Everyone that had loved him had burned long ago, leaving him achingly alone. And yet, his phone buzzed again.

With shaky hands, he got his phone out of his pocket. It was Jackson, and for some reason that made him feel better.

_ Hey, are you okay? _

_ I know it’s weird, but I can feel that you’re not, so tell me what happened. _

Peter felt his heart drop. Somewhere along the way, he and Jackson had formed a full packbond, something strong and powerful that connected them, that would let them know if the other one was suffering. That was concerning, since he never intended to go that deep when he decided to use him as an anchor to the pack. Never intended to care… but it was clearly too late to stop now.

_ It was a dead end _

_ Again _

_ Damn it, I’m sorry _

_ What now? _

Peter hands were shaking, but that was what he needed to hear. What now? He had faced one too many dead ends, but just because his hope was almost gone, it didn’t mean he had to  _ stop _ _._ He lost nothing if he continued looking. Nothing but sanity and more pieces of his heart, both things he didn’t have any use for after the fire.

No, Peter may be hurt and tired, but he was a stubborn bastard and wasn’t going to surrender. Murdering Kate Argent had seemed hopeless once upon a time, but he had kept trying and, after destroying everything in his path, he had done it. Sure, he had died soon after, but that had been a calculated risk and he had a plan B in place, so it still counted as a win.

_ Now I have to call a hacker that can get into the official adoption records _

_ I know a couple of guys, but my contacts are six years old, so it’ll take a while _

Jackson started to write. And then stopped, and started again, and stopped… The bubble kept appearing and disappearing for a minute, until Jackson decided to press send.

_ I may know someone _

_ You know a hacker? _

_ Yes _

_ But you can’t bring up the supernatural _

_ Okay, then _

_ Who is it? _

_ My friend Danny _

_ A teenager? _

_ I am a teenager too, you know _

_ I do know, in fact _

_ You sure he can do it? _

_ He’s good, you’ll see _

_ I’ll bring him around after lacrosse practice _

Well, Peter had nothing to lose by meeting Jackson’s friend and seeing what he could do. Even if he was useless, there was no way of getting anyone with more experience sooner, so it wouldn’t change anything.

_ Okay, then. Any pizza preference? _

_ Fuck that, I’m sick of take-out. I’m cooking _

_ As you wish. Nothing with meat, though _

_ I’ve seen you eat meat _

_ So? _

Jackson sent an emoji rolling its eyes. So childish… This was why he didn’t want to share his distaste for the smell of cooking meat. He had his first panic attack trying to fry bacon after his resurrection, the scent bringing him back to the fire. Which was one of the reasons all his cooking appliances were still in the packaging and he lived off of take-out.

_ How do you feel about soba noodles with peanut slaw? _

_ Sounds good _

_ Cool. I’ll send you the ingredients, it’s your turn for going grocery shopping _

_ Yes, dear _

_ Shut up _

Peter turned off his phone and refocused on his breathing. It was concerning, how much good talking to Jackson did, how deep their bond had become. Unavoidable, from a biological perspective, but still. Wolves were pack animals and Peter didn’t have bonds with anyone else in their pack, with the exception of Derek. Blood bonds were more powerful, yes, but their relationship was in ruins and they avoided each other as much as possible, so it was a tattered, faint thing.

Another notification made him shake his head, clearing the fog a bit. It was the promised grocery list. Peter got up, licked his knuckles clean to speed the healing, and put himself together enough that they wouldn’t throw him out of the store.

One step at a time. First, groceries. After that and a hot shower to clear his head, he would talk to this Danny and see if he could get into the adoption system.

* * *

Peter hated grocery shopping, which was why he never did it. On top of that, he had been boycotting Beacon Hill’s main store ever since that time the cashier had called him fat. The bitch. Of course, she couldn’t have known that he was pregnant with twins, but it would have been fucking rude even if Peter was actually fat. Any other day, he would have driven to the next town, but there wasn’t a way to get back to the apartment with the groceries in time if he did that.

It had been the right choice, because Peter couldn’t find the damn soba noodles Jackson had requested no matter how much he searched and was at risk of being late anyway. He just didn’t understand supermarkets, they were impossible places and he hated them all.

When the scent hit him, he was glaring at a package of spaghetti trying to make them change into soba noodles by pure force of will. Christopher. 

_ No, not Christopher _ _,_ he snapped at himself,  _ Argen t . _

He looked for an exit, but there was none. The back of the aisle was blocked by a woman with two carts and Argent was approaching from the front. With a deep breath, Peter went back to glaring at the spaghetti and prayed that Argent was simply on his way to another aisle and wouldn’t see him there.

The universe, of course, didn’t miss a chance to fuck with him.

“Peter?” asked Argent, horrified. Peter didn’t look at him, of course, because he was busy glaring at the would-be soba noodles. He had to buy them, in any case, because his claws were inside the package now.

Fucking Argent.

“What on Earth are you doing here?”

“Grocery shopping,” answered Peter, incapable of letting that stupid question go.

“You don’t do grocery shopping,” spat Argent, suspicious. “Are you following me?”

That made him look at him, indignant.

“Seriously? I can’t even buy soba noodles without you coming around to make it about you? How arrogant can you actually be?”

Argent blinked at him, passing from suspicious to worried.

“What on Earth happened to you? Did a truck run you over?”

Right, because Peter was stained with blood and his eyes were still a bit puffy from all the crying. At least his knuckles were healed.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” he said, tightening his lips.

This wasn’t how he wanted Argent to see him, all weak and vulnerable. Fuck him. Fuck everything.

Argent went back to his annoyed and suspicious expression. The woman was still blocking the back of the aisle while listening to their conversation. The gossipy bitch.

“Those are spaghetti,” said Argent, mockingly returning to the conversation they were having before.

“I’m aware, thank you,” he said, throwing them into his basket anyway. “They’re better than nothing.”

“The soba noodles aren’t even in this section, so really, why are you here?”

“Of course they’re in this section, they’re noodles!” snapped Peter.

“They’re with the Asian products.”

“They’re noodles,” he repeated. “That’s pasta, they should be with the pasta.”

“Except it’s Asian pasta,” Argent said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, fuck you, then,” he said, trying to move past to go to that section. Of course, Argent blocked his escape.

“What are you up to, Peter?”

“God, I hate you so much.”

“It’s mutual.”

“Yeah, I  _ know that _ _,_ you idiot. Leave me be.”

“You’re acting very strangely.”

“And that’s your business because…”

Argent looked at the woman, who was still clearly listening in.

“You know why.”

“I don’t have time for this, Argent.”

“Why? Do you have plans?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’ve a dinner date in thirty minutes, so get out of my way.”

Thing was, Peter knew Argent. Under the steel and hate, there was a lot that was still like the Christopher he had once loved, the man he had dated for four years, two of them living together. And that dark thing flashing through his face? That was jealousy. That was the look he had when Sophie Aberth had invited him to prom and when that shirtless boy had sat on his lap during a college party, all drunken flirtation.

“You. have. to be. kidding me,” he said. Argent’s face had changed, a reserved expression covering the fear. They both knew that Peter knew and that he was going to get his ass handed to him. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

“Of course not,” Argent lied, quickly and now clearly aching to get out of there.

“I can’t fucking believe you. What? You thought that just because of what happened the last time―”

“Of course not! You wish. I couldn’t care less about what you do as long as you’re not a danger to―”

“That’s bullshit and we both know it, don’t try to play it off―”

“I’m not playing anything off―”

“―like it’s your fucking duty, I know that face―”

“You don’t know anything, shut up―”

“―and I’m not buying your shit!”

“You’re delusional―”

“Just because I let you fuck me last week―”

The woman gasped and dropped a can to the ground. It was very loud.

Oops. Fuck.  _ Fuck . _

They looked at each other in a panic. The secret couldn’t get out, not when the kids could find out. Derek would probably kill him for it.

“I’ve got Lethe water,” he whispered.

Christopher nodded promptly, his morals put to the side when trouble arrived like the hypocrite he was.

“God, I’m so sorry, miss. Please, let me help you,” he said, getting close to her.

“Oh, that’s not necessary―”

Before she could finish, cheeks blushing at getting caught eavesdropping, Peter sprayed her. The water of Lethe, the river of oblivion, was as powerful as it was expensive. The woman blinked, a blank expression on her face. With a smile, he bent over to pick up the can and returned it to her.

“You dropped this. You were going to leave this aisle now and keep shopping. Mr. Argent was just helping me to find something in the store and literally nothing else, right?”

“Right,” she said, groggily. “What was I buying?”

“How would I know? But you were leaving.”

“Yes,” she said. “I was leaving.”

And with that, the woman left the aisle, though not without crashing her two carts against the shelves a number of times.

“What on fucking Earth, Peter?”

“Oh, fuck you, this is your fault!”

“You were the one screaming it in the middle of the store!”

“If you had let me go instead of getting all self-righteous and jealous―”

“This is  _ your  _ screw-up,” said Chris, without giving an inch.

And he wasn’t even wrong, fuck.

“Well, I was the one to fix it, so it doesn’t matter.”

“You can’t seriously―”

Peter tried to get around him, but the hunter blocked his exit again. He was one second away from punching his handsome face and spitting in both his eyes.

“Let me go.”

“I won’t―”

“You’ve got three seconds before I scream for security. How do you think it’ll look, having you harass me after what your psycho sister did?”

Stone-faced, Argent waited those three seconds before stepping aside when Peter opened his mouth to scream.

He didn’t say anything else, but took care to bump their shoulders with more strength than necessary. It was a bad decision, the contact mixing both their scents. Gunpowder, oranges, and coffee. Subtle notes of mint, probably chewing gum. If Peter was foolish enough to kiss him, Argent’s lips would be tingly, enough to make him shudder.

He got the noodles, paid, and got out of the store, feeling both exhausted and on edge. He had to hurry if he wanted to shower before Jackson and his friend came over. The last thing he needed was Jackson smelling Argent on him, not when the news of their affair were so fresh.

At least the cashier hadn’t called him fat, even if she had looked at the blood in his shirt way more than necessary, so it was a great improvement from the last time he had been in that stupid store.

* * *

When he arrived at the apartment, Peter put the bags in the kitchen and went straight to the shower, turning the water as hot as he could. His hands shook as he cleaned away the blood and sweat of the day. If only they could erase his weakness too… Talia had always said that lying to yourself was the cowardliest, most selfish thing you could do, but it had become one of Peter’s lifelines since his resurrection. And now, the lies were crumbling down. He didn’t know if he could find Achilles and, if this failed too, he would have to confront the fact that he had lost his son all over again, even if he never really stopped looking. And... he did care about Jackson as something more than a tool, as much as he denied it, enough that the teenager had been capable of feeling his breakdown through a packbond.

And Christopher.

Still fucking Christopher Gerard Argent.

Almost twenty years and he was still in love with the hunter, somehow. For some fucking reason. At the store, a little part of him just wanted to jump in his arms and be comforted, to share his pain. To have Christopher love him again, even if was just for a minute, even if he had never really loved him, just enough time for him to cry on his shoulder. He hated it, hated that he couldn’t get rid of those stupid feelings. And it wasn’t like he had been waiting around for him, Peter had fallen in love again, had built lives with other people, people that wanted him for something more than sex and the idea of defying their parents, people that didn’t think that he was an inferior animal.

And yet.

The door opened and Peter could hear Jackson talking to someone else, even if the falling water hid their scents.

“Peter?”

“I’m in the shower, give me a minute!”

“Okay, I’ll start dinner while you finish!”

Okay, good. Peter had to put himself together, pick up the shards of his defenses and raise them again. The scent of Christopher had gone away long ago, buried under the scent of soap and cleanliness. Peter could still feel it, of course, deep in his bones, but Jackson wouldn’t be able to and that was the important part.

He breathed and pushed the conflicted mess of his feelings down, and down, and down. Out of sight, out of mind.

Peter turned off the water and dried himself, putting on a pair of tight jeans and a soft sweater. His hair was difficult to style while wet, but he combed it away from his face and practiced a smile in the mirror. He needed a couple of seconds to make it look more natural and less like a grimace, but he got there in the end.

Peter could do this. It was just a dinner, he just had to see if Jackson’s friend could hack into the database, convince him to do so, and not break down crying again. The last part was fundamental.

Jackson’s friend didn’t look sixteen, but again, no teenager in Beacon Hills looked like a teenager. Peter was pretty sure the Nemeton scraped off a couple of years of their lives to feed itself, but it was a pretty gruesome theory, so he didn’t share it. The really surprising part is that he was a Maheleani, so the whole “don’t mention the supernatural” thing was kind of out of left field.

“Hello, I assume you’re the famous Danny?” Peter said.

“Eh, yeah. I― I guess so? And you are…”

“Peter Hale. How is your grandmother, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well, she… she died. Four years ago.”

“Oh,” he said, cursing himself and his stupid coma. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“How on Earth did you know his grandmother?” asked Jackson, doing… something to the pan. Cooking stuff.

“She was the personal assistant of Satomi Ito, an old friend of my sister.”

“I thought your grandma was a social worker,” said Jackson, suspicious and clearly annoyed.

“Did you?” asked Danny back, scratching his neck.

“Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Things.”

“ _ Dude _ .”

“You lie to me all the time and I don’t pressure you about it!”

Jackson’s face fell, hurt by that, as much as he tried to hide it. Peter hated it.

“I don’t understand why we are walking on eggshells. Why can’t we mention the supernatural again, Jackson?”

“Peter! What the fuck? Shut up!”

Danny looked at Jackson, clearly eager.

“You know?”

“Do you?” asked Jackson, surprisingly vulnerable.

“My grandma was a spark, she worked with one of the packs in the area, so…”

“I’m― Werewolf. I’m a werewolf.”

“That’s what has been happening? I thought it was something way worse!”

“First I was a kanima, Matt, the asshole, was controlling me and making me kill people, but then Lydia’s love brought me back and―”

“Wait, what? Back down, please. What’s a kanima?”

Peter tuned out while Jackson explained what had been happening in Beacon Hills, more or less. He was kind of annoyed that they would go so off track instead of focusing on finding Achilles, which was clearly more important.

Jackson’s phone started to ring as he served the food, which smelled amazing. Not good enough to make that trip to the store worth it, but then again, nothing really was.

“Fuck, I have to take this. Wait for me before you start,” he said while going out to the balcony to take the call.

“So, why do you need my help?” said Danny, looking at Jackson through the glass door.

“Years ago, my sister put my son, Achilles, up for adoption without my consent. Jackson’s been helping me to look into it, but the trail is ice cold for obvious reasons. I need someone that can hack into the adoption records and find him.”

“Why would she do that? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but Talia was always a great alpha and you… killed a lot of people. Recently.”

Jackson could have omitted that, but noooooo… The little shit.

“He was half-demon,” lied Peter. “She thought it was too much of a risk, an excuse for the hunters to attack us.”

“You fucked a demon?” Danny seemed to be horrified, which was disappointing; he had seemed open-minded.

“College is a very weird time, sexually. Can you do it?”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s  _ very  _ illegal.”

“I can handle the law, don’t worry about that. I guarantee you that they won’t give you any problem.”

“Okay, but what do I get in return? I’m not doing this just because you asked nicely.”

“I’ll pay your college tuition,” he proposed. “Unless things have changed a lot in the six years I spent in a coma, that should be a great offer.”

“I want to go to the MIT,” said Danny, narrowing his eyes. “That’s a lot of money.”

“I’m rich and I want to find my lost son,” said Peter in return. “Take advantage of my desperation before I get tired and hire someone else. You’re only here because you’re the closest hacker I could find and have Jackson’s recommendation.”

Danny thought about it for a moment, before nodding.

“Okay, why not? I’ve broken the law for stupider things.”

“Like what?” asked Jackson, coming back inside.

“Once Stiles bullied me into tracing a call by confronting me with a hot shirtless man. It wasn’t my finest moment.”

“Oh, so that was you!” Peter said with a smile. “I had wondered. There was no way my nephew had done that by himself, the poor thing gets confused by a remote.”

“Your nephew is…”

“The hot shirtless guy, yes,” Peter said with a smirk.

“Oh! I’m sorry for objectifying him?” said Danny, suddenly uncomfortable.

Peter had to laugh at that.

“Don’t be, we’ve been blessed with good genes,” he told him, making a gesture towards his body.

Danny blushed at that, making Jackson snicker, even if the tension was still present on his shoulders.

“What was that call about?” Danny asked, desperate to change the subject.

“David is being fucking impossible. Apparently we’re having a family dinner in half an hour! Us! Family dinner! He hasn’t been at home in time for dinner on a weekday since he won the election for District Attorney and now he wants to play house? It’s so unfair!”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” asked Peter, uneasy. He didn’t want Jackson to leave. Especially when it was probably his fault. Fuck, he should have left Whittemore floundering like the incompetent father he was, instead of helping him.

“I mean, I  _ have  _ to. If I don’t, he’ll call the Sheriff and my car isn’t hard to track down. I’m not giving Stilinski the satisfaction. Either of them!”

“So… we’re leaving?” asked Danny, unsure.

“No,” said Peter, too quickly. His hands were shaking again and he stuffed them into his pockets, pretending to be casual and probably failing. “I need to know. I… I need to know, it can’t wait.”

Danny looked from one to the other, seeing their conflict and seeming like he really didn’t know what to do with it.

“Okay… Can you give me a ride back home when I’m finished?”

“Sure.”

“You’re doing this without me?” asked Jackson, his face getting dark with jealousy and pettiness. “I’ve been the one helping you!”

“So what? Do you want me to wait around without knowing where my son is until you have an opening in your schedule? The whole point of asking your friend was to have this done as quickly as possible, Jackson.”

The teenager opened his mouth to answer, but he closed it again.

“I just want to be here for it, you know? I thought…”

“I want you here for it too,” Peter acknowledged. “But after today… if Achilles isn’t in the official records, I need to know. This is probably my last real chance to find him, and I can’t stand the uncertainty.”

He would love to say that the shakiness on his voice was an act, a way to get Jackson to do what he wanted, but he was done lying to himself. It only sharpened the truth, and delusion had a limit. There was no way he could pretend that he wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown, not after the alley.

But, if he found Achilles, it would be worth it. Everything would be okay once he got his son back.

_ If _ he got him back.

“Okay,” Jackson agreed, still hurt. “I’ve got to go, but if you find something, give me a call, okay? I would love an excuse to leave ‘family dinner’ anyway,” he said with surprisingly angry air quotes.

Peter arched his eyebrows, because David Whittemore was a fake loser, but he wasn’t that bad. Of course, maybe Jackson’s mother was a bitch. He didn’t know her very well beyond a couple of Talia’s parties, so his only memory of Nancy Whittemore was that she was hot and had great arms. None of which told him a lot about her personality.

“Do you want to take some of the noodles?”

“Nah, you can eat my share,” said Jackson, putting on his jacket. “You sure you’re fine with this, Danny?”

“Anything to avoid student loans.”

Peter took the dishes to the dining table and opened his computer so Danny could work on it. Jackson and Danny shared a couple of whispers in the background, but they were of no consequence, so he paid no attention to it.

When Jackson left and Danny sat down, Peter started to eat. He would bet it was delicious, but it tasted like ashes in his mouth. He dropped the fork, deciding that he didn’t need to eat anymore for the day, not when he’d had such a big lunch. If he didn’t find Achilles tonight, he would probably have a breakdown, so it was probably better not have much in his stomach to throw up after the nightmares.

Danny was typing away, looking like he knew what he was doing. He only stopped while things loaded on the screen, as he had to download a couple of programs and took the chance to eat.

“You don’t like it? It’s one of Jackson’s star dishes.”

“Oh, it’s great, but I don’t have the stomach to eat right now,” said Peter with an empty smile.

“I guess that makes sense,” admitted Danny, going back to the computer.

Hacking was a long process, and Peter descended into an almost meditative state, his mind completely blank. Time was both fast and slow, until it stopped making sense altogether.

“I’m in,” said Danny, finally. “What parameters do you want me to search?”

“Any male baby put up for adoption between February and April of 2003 in the United States. After that, look for an Achilles; I doubt he would have kept his birth name, but it doesn’t hurt to check. I also want a list for only California, so I’ll have a smaller number to look through to begin with.”

“You said 2003?” asked Danny, in a weird tone.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

Danny seemed to consider this for a moment, before he shook his head awkwardly and went back to typing.

“Okay, there isn’t any Achilles in that period of time. This is the list of male babies put up for adoption in that period of time in the United States and this other one covers just California.”

“Let me see,” said Peter, taking the computer. He scrolled down the shorter list, reading the names with desperation. One of those boys could be Achilles and maybe, just maybe, Talia had gotten sentimental and let him keep something of his real family. Maybe he would find a Peterson or a Beacon, some kind of bond to their pack. Maybe―

At the bottom of the list, painfully clear, was Jackson Whittemore.

“What? Jackson… Jackson isn’t adopted.”

“Yes, he is. The Whittemores told him a couple of years ago, that’s why his relationship with them isn’t that great.”

“Jackson can’t be my son, that’s― That’s impossible.”

“I mean, I thought about it when you told me the date, but Jackson isn’t half-demon, so…” Danny trailed off, leaving the room in absolute silence. “Is he?”

Jackson. Jackson Whittemore. He couldn’t be― Peter would have  _ known  _ if― But. He had become a kanima, and Peter couldn’t help but remember all the tales about humans borns to ruthless packs where born humans would be bitten, how they would turn into  _ monsters _ _._ Were kanimas one of those monsters? It would explain a lot, since Jackson was definitely an asshole, but wasn’t the kind of twisted and broken that would bring out a monster after the bite.

Jackson, who was the same kind of asshole as Peter, who had the Hale cheekbones and loved cooking shows like Christopher.

Jackson, who was the only person that Peter had been able to connect with since his resurrection, to the point of forming a true pack bond.

Jackson Whittemore, who was a real person and not a memory, who knew about the awful things that Peter had done.

“Fuck, it’s him, right?” said Danny, looking at the screen with a pained expression.

“I don’t know. He  _ may  _ be, but there isn’t any proof.”

Talia had shared the secret of the supernatural with David Whittemore, had been his friend, and yet had never mentioned that family to Peter. Like they were a secret, like she wanted to keep them separate. How hard would it be for her to keep tabs on Jackson?

“You can’t tell him,” he ordered.

“What? He’s my best friend―”

“What if he isn’t my son? What if it’s a coincidence? How do you think that would make him feel?”

Danny bit his lips, thinking about it. If he didn’t agree, Peter would have to get rid of him. Force poison down his throat, enough to get him sick, to give him time to find out if it was true. Peter’s ears were ringing again and the breakdown was staring at him from beyond the thinnest barrier. He would do whatever was necessary.

“Okay, but I can’t keep this secret forever.”

“Give me a week,” asked Peter. His lips felt numb. All of him felt numb.

“I’ll give you three days. And if by then you haven’t spoken to Jackson, I will.”

“Fair,” he answered, staring at the dish of noodles he had barely touched. The idea that the cook could be his son was dizzying.

The world had stopped and it wouldn’t spin again until he got his answer. An answer he  _ would  _ get, no matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter knows! He needs proof, of course, but in the bottom of his heart, he _knows_. I hope it was worth the wait, ;)


	7. Love isn't enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_That made her stop. She had forgotten all about it. Obviously. Sometimes Jackson thought that he was the only one that remembered it, the only one that couldn’t forget Lydia’s messed up gloss and the rumours in the locker room about McCall scoring with his girlfriend in Coach’s office._"
> 
> Peter cares.  
(Jackson skips school and it's awesome until it really, really isn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is of a normal length! It's also transition, but you can't have everything, xD
> 
> As always, thanks to Rhysiana for being a wonderful beta. And thanks to Sparkwhorunswithwolves for their live blogging of this fic; I finished this chapter the next day in one sitting, so if that was the plan it really worked.
> 
> Lydia is presented in an unflattering light this chapter but, in my defense, the show did it first. I took note of all Jydia interactions through season one and let me tell you, she was horrific. I really like her, but her relationship with Jackson was... problematic.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: There is mentions of cheating in this chapter, but it's more about past cheating and we never see anything beyond flirting. I don't think it's enough to tag it since it's very small and only concerns this chapter, but I thought I owed you a warning.

“Are you avoiding me?”

Danny startled, dropping his lock to the floor and scrambling with his books until he got them back inside his locker.

“What? No!”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” said Jackson, annoyed and a bit hurt.

“The ones you sent an hour ago? Come on, first period hasn’t even started yet, I literally haven’t had time to avoid you,” Danny answered, bending down to pick up the lock.

“Whatever. How did it go yesterday?”

“I think it went well? I just got him a list of boys put up for adoption around the moment his son was born. He’s going to look into it.”

“Hm, yeah, I guess you wouldn’t find him by just the name,” admitted Jackson, feeling bad for having been a dick yesterday. He had felt excluded, as stupid as it was, but there was still a lot to be done to reunite Peter with his son, a lot he could be there for.

Danny laughed awkwardly at that and started to reorganize his books. Jackson narrowed his eyes, because his best friend was acting weird. He didn’t think that Peter would pretend not to have found his son just to trick Jackson into believing he was there for it, it wasn’t his style. And thank fuck for that; it would be humiliating and Jackson would feel very pathetic.

“I don’t know what name could be that telling.”

“Moises Peterson,” Jackson proposed. “Hal Beacon. Agamemnon Hall. Wolfgang Pedro.”

This time the laugh was honest, because Jackson was hilarious.

“Pedro isn’t a last name.”

“Wolfgang Pedro Wolf?”

“Pretty sure that would get CPS involved, it _ has _to be abuse.”

“Even worse than Achilles Hale in itself. Which is a high bar,” said Jackson with a snort.

“It’s very… Greek. But better than Wolfgang.”

“Some people shouldn’t get to name their kids. Okay, Nancy insisted on naming me after her maiden name, but at least I didn’t get bullied in school for it.”

“Yeah, I guess. Do you know what name your birth parents had chosen?”

Jackson froze.

“How on Earth would I fucking know, dude?”

“Sorry, just―”

“What am I supposed to do? Ask them?”

“Maybe they left it on record? I don’t know, I’m sorry―”

“If there was a record I’m pretty sure I would have that name,” he said.

But would he? Something told him that the Whittemores would want to choose their son’s name, no matter what the Gordons wanted. Why would they care about their opinion, anyway? Drug addicts that were irresponsible enough to get themselves killed in a traffic accident didn’t deserve to have a fucking choice.

“I’m sorry,” repeated Danny. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Whatever.”

He let it go, because Lydia was coming in their direction. She took his arm, but didn’t say a word. It was all appearances, with Lydia. Even when their relationship was falling apart, she would hang from his arm and smile, looking perfect. Jackson was just a prop in those moments, and a faulty one at that, now that he wasn’t the lacrosse captain.

Danny rolled his eyes, because he had always liked Lydia but had never liked _ them _as a couple. Jackson ignored him and kissed her head with a cocky smile, playing his part. Lydia smelt like vanilla, coconut, and chrysanthemums, and Jackson would sell his soul to the Devil just to make things between them okay, to win her forgiveness and force himself to forgive her.

True love had been more powerful than a fucking kanima, but it didn’t seem to be capable of winning against all their baggage.

There was a bang and a scream at the end of the hallway, and they turned to see McMediocrity with his hand trapped by Allison’s locker. She had that face, the ‘I’m pissed off and I’ll join the magical Nazis if that means I get to kill you’ face. The idiot got free and looked at his ex with puppy eyes and a wobbly lip, begging her for forgiveness, but Allison just whispered, too quiet for anyone but a werewolf to hear, that she would shoot a wolfsbane bullet up his ass if he ever spoke to her again. She turned and left, her ponytail flicking in a way more alike a whip than anything else.

Fuck, Allison was scary.

“What happened there?” asked Danny.

“He was just threatened with a wolfsbane bullet up his ass. Total badass.”

“Jackson!” Lydia exclaimed, hitting him in the arm and looking at Danny.

“Oh! He knows about the werewolf thing.”

“Since when?”

“Forever? I found out―”

“And you didn’t tell me, of course. I’m only your _ girlfriend _.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Danny said in Jackson’s defense. “I told him that I knew yesterday.”

“Oh. I― well, you could have still told me.”

Because the sky would fall over their heads before Lydia would apologize, before she would admit she was wrong. That was always Jackson’s job.

“Whatever,” Jackson said, annoyed, and shook his arm free. “I’m going to see if Allison is okay.”

“We’re best friends, I should be the one to go.”

“She’s my friend too, Lydia, and _ I _know what this is about. Do you?”

She seemed hurt at that. _ Good _. It wasn’t like she was ever not disappointed in him, was it? The least he could do was give him a new reason to complain about how awful he was.

Allison was in her car, arms crossed and lips pursed. Jackson knocked on the window.

“What?”

“Do you want to talk?”

She sighed and opened the other door to let him into the car. It was new, and Jackson wondered if the Argents were actually richer than the Whittemores. Maybe murdering people was a sustainable business strategy… or it would be if three-fifths of their family weren’t dead.

“I talked with my father yesterday, when he came back from his trip.”

“How did that go?”

“He got very angry at me and told me I was lying. That Mom was trying to kill Derek and he bit her in self-defense, but she hadn’t tried to kill Scott. We screamed at each other about it, because I knew you wouldn’t lie about something like that. About other things, maybe, but about how my mother died? No. And then… he called Derek,” Allison swallowed, eyes wet. “And he told us what you told me, that Mom had tried to kill Scott and make it look like an asthma attack. Dad didn’t know, Mom and Gerard lied to him too.”

“Fuck,” said Jackson. He may dislike Chris Argent, but fuck. His dying wife had bullshitted him and he found out when his daughter screamed at him about it. That couldn’t be pleasant, even when it wasn’t about trying to murder teenagers.

“I just confronted Scott about it, and you know what he said? That he couldn’t tell me because he didn’t want that to be my last memory of my mother, he didn’t want to make me deal with that. So he let me try to _ murder _people because he thought I was too weak to handle the truth.”

Jackson thought about it for a second.

“Scott is an idiot.”

His validation seemed to encourage Allison even farther, her anger rising even more.

“And then he tried to tell me it was because he loved me and worried about me, and went on about how we should be together.”

“He tried to flirt his way into your pants while you were confronting him about lying about your mother’s death,” said Jackson, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes!”

“I mean, I do feel vindicated, because I told you he sucked from the beginning.”

“You were just jealous,” she huffed, crossing her arms again in annoyance.

“And _ right _.”

Allison dropped her head on the steering wheel.

“You know what? Yes, you were right. I’m so angry at him. And yes, I get it, okay, he was the victim, but he should have told me. My _ dad _didn’t know. Fuck, you should have seen his face, I…”

“Maybe we should have a Whatsapp group for supernatural shit. Keep all of us connected so people can’t fucking hide key pieces of information,” he huffed, like he wasn’t hiding the existence of a secret brother from Allison. Which was different.

“That’s not a terrible idea, surprisingly.”

“‘Surprisingly’,” he repeated, his voice bitter. Wasn’t it always a surprise when Jackson did anything right?

“I’m just teasing,” said Allison, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, it’s okay. We should go back to class.”

Without letting her speak, he jumped out of the BMW and closed the door behind him. He was still riled up from his confrontation with Lydia, as stupid as it was. Every word seemed like more evidence that she was about to dump him, that he would never be good enough, would never make her happy.

Allison followed him, reluctant.

“I want to skip class so bad.”

“I can’t believe you’re forcing me to be the responsible friend. I’m supposed to be the dick, ask anyone.”

“Oh, you are still a dick. A responsible dick.”

“You are so sweet to me,” he said, ironic. “I totally don’t regret being nice to you.”

Allison snickered at that, but seemed to be more confident, so Jackson was doing a good job. He sucked at most things, but he could be a good friend. Mostly to Danny. Almost exclusively to Danny. But he could.

His mood soured even further when he went back in just to see Lydia flirting with one of his old teammates. She saw him looking and smiled at him, slow and satisfied.

“Okay, I’m skipping class too,” he said, turning around.

“Jackson!”

He hadn’t reached the parking lot again when Allison grabbed his arm. Fuck her hunter reflexes, they were super unfair. Jackson was a werewolf! Shouldn’t that give him an edge?

“What was that about?” she asked, without letting him go.

“You saw what it was about.”

“She was just talking to him. You’re being a jealous―”

“Of course I’m jealous!” he yelled, shaking his arm free. “She was flirting with that guy, okay? I’m not seeing things, I could hear her chatting up that idiot.”

Allison breathed in and out, clearly upset with him. And who wasn’t? The number of people upset with him could fill a fucking stadium, they should form a club.

“Look, Lydia loves you. I don’t know what was going on with that guy, but you have to trust her.”

“Like she loved me when she cheated on me with McCall?”

That made her stop. She had forgotten all about it. Obviously. Sometimes Jackson thought that he was the only one that remembered it, the only one that couldn’t forget Lydia’s messed up gloss and the rumours in the locker room about McCall scoring with his girlfriend in Coach’s office.

“She always does this,” he said, sadness overpowering his anger. “Every time I don’t live up to her expectations, every time I disagree with her or fight her about anything, she goes and flirts with someone else. Remember that double date at the bowling alley? She tried to flirt with Scott, in your face, because he was winning. And not even a month later she cheated on me when Coach named him co-captain. But I’m supposed to trust her?”

“Lydia has changed,” said Allison, after a silent minute. “She wouldn’t do that now. She’s learned better than to take you for granted.”

“Well, obviously she hasn’t. Do you want to ditch class or not?”

She hesistated for a moment, but ended up sighing.

“Fuck it,” she said. “We are taking my car.”

He smiled at that. Maybe being Allison’s friend hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.

* * *

“Who are you texting?” asked Jackson, fearing the answer. He didn’t want to deal with Lydia right now, that’s why he has running away to begin with.

“My dad, I’m warning him about skipping class.”

Jackson almost dropped his milkshake all over Allison’s upholstery.

“Oh my God, you’re so bad at this. You’re not supposed to tell your parents!”

“Do I have to remind you of all the shit that has been going on this year? I am not disappearing without letting him know. Don’t worry, he won’t care.”

“Are we still talking about Mr. Argent? Hunter guy, very overprotective, he tried to kill me once.”

“_ I _ tried to kill you once,” she reminded him, taking a bite of her cronut.

“Well, he isn’t as pretty as you, so I haven’t forgiven him.”

Allison rolled her eyes without looking up from her phone.

“He’s okay with it as long as I keep weapons in reach and don’t get in trouble.”

“I don’t buy it, he’s probably tracking your phone and is going to fill me with lead any minute now.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“And your dad is a hunter, so I’m entitled to paranoia.”

She handed him the phone and stole one of his blueberry mini-muffins in the process. Chris Argent had given her permission to skip class as long as she took precautions, which was weird as fuck. Another message appeared, awkwardly thanking Allison for her trust and commitment to their resolution of having better communication.

“Ugh, take this back, I get enough uncomfortable incompetence from my own father.”

“He’s trying,” she defended, texting something back.

“And failing.”

“We’ve gone through some stuff lately, sorry if things aren’t seamless enough for you.”

“I don’t know if I forgive you, to be honest. That was painful. He used _ an emoji _.”

Allison made a face at that, looking away from the phone.

“He… No, I don’t have an excuse for that. _ Why does he do that? _ He hates them, but he uses the one with the flexing biceps all the time and it’s so weird.”

“Don’t ask me, the fact that your dad is a human being still creeps me the fuck out.”

She punched him in the arm, with actual strength. Either she was very aware of his werewolf resistance or she didn’t find him funny at all.

“Anyway, what now? I’m loving this breakfast, but we have to do something beyond eating in my car the whole day.”

“Well, we don’t have a lot of options, to be honest. My parents can’t know I’m skipping school, so most of the public places in town are out.”

“Isn’t that a bit paranoid? Your parents are supposed to be working, we just have to avoid their workplaces.”

Jackson actually laughed at that, almost choking in one of his mini-muffins.

“That’s cute, but no. Everyone in town knows me and my family, if anyone sees me in, I don’t know, the mall, they’ll totally call David’s office. Perks of being the son of the District Attorney.”

“Okay, then what?”

Jackson thought about it for a moment.

“Would you teach me how to shoot with a bow and arrow?”

Allison looked at him with surprise.

“Why?”

“Looks cool,” he admitted. “And it’s a sport, I’m good at sports.”

“It’s a bit more tricky than lacrosse,” she said with an amused smile.

“Don’t worry,” he said, arrogant. “I have a great deal of paintball experience.”

She laughed, and Jackson smiled, happy that she was finally getting his humor and he didn’t have to explain that he wasn’t _ that much of an asshole _ all the time. It did get tiring.

* * *

“Are you sure that your dad isn’t inside about to shoot me?” asked Jackson, again. He was confident that Mr. Argent wouldn’t try to kill him out of nowhere, but he didn’t want to see him anyway, paranoid that something in his face would scream ‘YOU HAVE A SECRET SON WITH PETER HALE AND I THINK YOU ARE A DICK’.

He didn’t know whose anger he was more scared of, his or Peter’s. Probably Peter’s. Jackson didn’t want to betray his trust, to disappoint him. And the lack of a Code that would stop him from maiming him was concerning.

Allison, who was heartless, rolled her eyes at him.

“Do you want food or what?”

“I do,” admitted Jackson, who was starving. Fuck werewolf metabolism.

“Then come in, we have leftover chicken cacciatore and all the snacks you can eat.”

Damn it, he really wanted chicken cacciatore. Their second, giant breakfast had been great, but he hadn’t eaten any real food in nearly a day. Dinner last night had been a disaster. The moment they had sat down to eat, Nancy had started to complain about the disruption on her schedule, with Jackson’s wholehearted agreement, which made David surprisingly angry. Jackson hadn’t lasted two minutes before getting up and locking himself in his bedroom, no matter how much David had demanded that he come back.

Hearing them scream at each other was even worse than when they screamed at him.

“Fine,” he relented, following her into the apartment.

It looked almost like a hotel, all nice and neutral, with no personality whatsoever. Jackson imagined that the Argents had other priorities than decoration, worried as they had been about getting away from the place where Ms. Argent had killed herself.

The kitchen was good, though. Even better than Peter’s. Jackson wanted to steal half of the things there and, well, the Argents were technically richer than him, so it was kind of Robin Hood-ish, even if his archery wasn’t as good as he would like.

Whatever, Allison had said that he wasn’t that bad for a beginner and archery was dumb anyway.

“What do you want to watch while we eat?” asked Allison, taking their late lunch out of the fridge.

“I’m trying to catch up with _ The Great British Bake Off _ and starting _ White Collar _, do you like any of those?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “What about a movie?”

“_ Hoosiers _?” he proposed, waiting for the cutting rejection.

“Sure, I think we actually have that one… somewhere. In one of the boxes. Why don’t you go look while I heat this up? It should be in one of the boxes in the living room.”

“You’re going to let me go through your moving boxes,” he asked, incredulous.

“No, I’m letting you go through my dad’s DVDs.”

“Well, now I’m terrified I’ll find BDSM hentai in there and we’ll have a very weird conversation.”

Allison hit him with a wooden spoon to the head, which, rude.

“Don’t! That’s my _ dad _you’re talking about!”

Jackson wanted to make fun of her, but then he realized that, if he found out that Mr. Argent was into weird sex stuff, that probably meant that _ Peter _was too and fuck, that was weird. So maybe he should leave Allison alone, since it was probably worse to think about it when it was your dad.

Jackson sure as fuck tried not to think about the Playboy stack he had found in the guestroom bathroom when he was seven. He had used them for a school project, something that the Whittemores have only found out after getting a note from the teacher. Nancy had been furious and David mortified. Jackson blamed that experience for most of his terrible personality, even if it was retrospective trauma.

“Okay, fine, I won’t tell you about the porn I’ll probably find,” he said, going to the living room before Allison could react. He was still a bit of an asshole.

“There is no porn!” she yelled anyway. “And you shouldn’t piss off the person making your food!”

Jackson snickered and started to go through Chris Argent’s DVD collection. His life was _ so weird _.

“Oh my God, your dad has good taste,” he told Allison when she came around with the plates of food and a pack of sodas. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Between the war films, there’s about ten percent sports movies, so I imagined you would like them.”

“His copy of _ Saving Private Ryan _ is signed,” said Jackson, shaking it in the air. “This is the best, do you think he would notice if I stole it?”

“For someone so worried about him trying to kill you, you seem eager to incur his fury,” she observed. “I’m pretty sure it has a tracker, so don’t even think about it.”

Jackson made a disappointed sound, going back to the boxes. There were so many cool movies in there. So many. He wanted them all.

“Have you found anything you want to watch or what?”

“I want to watch this whole box,” admitted Jackson, “but let’s start with _ Hoosiers _. It’s on the coffee table.”

They got comfortable on the couch and ate while the movie played.

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Sure,” he said, wary. “As long as it isn’t about Lydia.”

Allison gave him a look, but nodded, rolling her eyes while pausing the movie.

“No, it’s… How is it, being a werewolf?”

Jackson was surprised by that question, to be honest.

“It’s… cool? I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“I mean, do you hate it? Does it make you unhappy?”

“Not really,” he said, before realizing that this was about her mom. “It’s good, Allison. Some things are a big adjustment, like being capable of smelling everything. Let me tell you, I avoid public restrooms with a passion now, it’s disgusting. But all in all… it’s worth it. I’m faster, stronger, I can heal anything. There are a lot of pros.”

He wanted to keep going, telling her how awesome it was to have a pack. As weak as the connection that joined him to Peter probably was in the great scheme of things, it made him feel… good. Safe, cared for, part of something. The moment when Peter had needed him, Jackson had felt it.

Allison wouldn’t understand, of course, and he couldn’t explain that he was… friends with Peter Hale. Or whatever they were. _ Pack _.

“I wish my mom had given it a chance,” she whispered, sad.

Jackson sighed, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder to give her comfort. That’s when the front door opened and Chris Argent looked straight into the living room.

He jumped away from Allison.

“Look at the hour!” he said, very loudly, while grabbing his jacket and backpack. “I should go!”

“Jackson, stop being ridiculous,” asked Allison, with a put upon expression. “My dad isn’t going to shoot you.”

Jackson looked at the stormy expression in Mr. Argent’s face, and then back at Allison.

“Does he know that?”

“You didn’t tell me that your friend was Jackson,” said the hunter, irritated.

“Well, it is,” said Allison, decisive. “We are friends and we are watching TV. We’ll keep the door open, don’t worry.”

“I was leaving,” assured Jackson, awkwardly.

“No, you weren’t. Come back to the couch and let’s finish the movie.”

“But I―”

“It’s okay,” said Mr. Argent, sounding very fake. “You can stay.”

Jackson wanted to run away right the fuck about then. He avoided Mr. Argent’s eyes, because he seemed like the kind of person that would see right through him, and through him there was Peter’s secret.

“No, really, I should go and― Fuck! My car is still at school.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” said Allison. “After the movie.”

Well, he was trapped. Unless he called Derek or Peter, of course, but he was pretty sure that if they found out he had been in the Argents’ place, he would be dead within a minute. It truly had been a stupid decision.

Why couldn’t Danny have a car?

“Okay… You sure I can? Because I can leave,” he said with the eyes of Mr. Argent heavy on him, making him feel trapped.

“Sit the fuck down, Jackson,” she sighed.

“Allison, language!”

She flinched, looking at her dad with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry.”

Her dad sighed too.

“I’ll be in my office if you need something,” he said, before looking at Jackson straight in the eye. “Just across from this door, which will stay open at all times.”

Jackson kind of wanted to say “_ Yes, Sir _”, which he hadn’t said ever, in his life. He reminded himself that Mr. Argent was scary, but didn’t deserve his respect.

“Cool, then.”

Argent’s jaw tensed, fingers gripping the door handle so much that they turned white. After a full minute, he nodded and went to the office.

Jackson let himself fall into the couch, exhausted.

“You see, he hasn’t shot at you,” said Allison with a wry smile.

“Pretty sure it’s because he doesn’t think I deserve a fast death,” muttered Jackson.

“That may be part of it,” she admitted, still smiling. “He doesn’t like brats.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say that he had liked brats enough to knock Peter up, but stopped himself. Shame, it was a great retort.

* * *

Jackson was opening the door of his Porsche, Allison’s car already gone down the road, when he heard her.

“Jackson.”

He froze. Fuck. _ Fuck _.

“Lydia? What are you doing here? Class ended hours ago.”

“Allison sent me a text telling me when you would be here.”

Fucking Allison. He should have known better than to believe that someone would choose him over Lydia, that he would get a sincere friendship, ever, other than Danny.

Lydia was so pretty, always pretty. She was wearing her hair up in a braided bun, framing her beautiful features. Her dress was short and flowy, the purples bringing out her pale skin and her bright green eyes. He was so in love with her… and didn’t know what to do about it.

She was also wearing gloss, and Jackson found himself focusing on it, searching for imperfections that would reveal a new infidelity.

“We have to talk,” she said.

And Jackson swallowed, knowing what was coming. He wanted to cry, but held himself together.

* * *

“There you are, Jackson! I’ve been calling you for half an hour, what― Jackson?”

Jackson closed the door behind him, softly. He didn’t want to look at David, not when it was so obvious he had been crying.

“Honey, is everything okay?” asked Nancy, running towards him.

She held his arms, clearly looking for wounds, but Jackson let himself flop against her. Nancy was an athlete, she was strong enough to hold him. He almost broke up crying again when he felt her arms surrounding him, hugging him against her.

“What is it, honey? Did something happen?”

“Lydia broke up with me,” he said with a strangled voice.

David sighed in relief, the worry draining out of him. Nancy hugged him with more strength.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

* * *

_“Are you happy?” she had asked, after they were both hoarse from screaming. _

_ “I love you.” _

_ “That’s not what I asked. Do I make you happy?” _

_ Jackson had let his head down and hadn't answered. _

_ “I love you too,” said Lydia, still crying. “But being with you hurts so much, Jackson.” _

_ “I can do better,” he had said, quickly. “Give me a chance, please. I’ll do better, I’ll―” _

_ “You aren’t happy either.” It wasn’t a question. “Why should we force ourselves to be in a relationship that makes us miserable?” _

_ “Because we love each other!” he had screamed. “Because it’s worth it, I rather be unhappy with you than lose you again, I―” _

_ “No. I don’t want that. This… what we have right now… Jackson, it’s worse than being alone. I can’t live knowing that being with me makes you unhappy, that I’m the worst part of your day. Can you?” _

_ Jackson had taken a breath. _

_ “I’ll do better,” he had repeated. “We need to work on our relationship, yes, but―” _

_ “No,” she had said. “Sometimes… sometimes love isn’t enough. Our love isn’t enough. We are terrible together, Jackson, we constantly hurt each other!” _

_ “You are hurting me right now,” he had said. _

_ “It’s for the best. I’m… I’m sorry. I’ll always love you, Jackson, but…” _

* * *

But he had managed to fuck it up, as he had always known he would.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, tearing up.

“That’s okay. Come on, I’ll make you hot cocoa, okay? With extra marshmallows and cinnamon, just like you like it.”

Jackson nodded, following her to the kitchen. David followed them, silent. He was terrible at these things. Not like Nancy and Jackson weren’t, but David was impossibly awkward the moment you mentioned the existence of feelings. Jackson had always wondered what Nancy had seen on him, how had they fallen in love to begin with, but their marriage was overall very happy. Certainly happier than his relationship with Lydia.

He let himself be comforted by his mom― Nancy. The Whittemores. They weren’t really his parents, no matter how much he wanted them to be.

“I’m tired, I think I’ll go to bed now,” he said, finishing the cocoa in one go. He didn’t even want the marshmallows. He didn’t deserve marshmallows.

“Okay, honey,” said Nancy, kissing his forehead, like he was a child again, like he hadn’t fucked up their family too, and giving him another hug.

“You should have dinner, Jackson―”

“I ate a couple of hours ago with Allison,” he said.

* * *

_“You’ve been hanging out with Allison! How do you think that makes me feel?” _

_ “I have a right to friends too, Lydia!” _

_ “You have always been half in love with her and―” _

_ “No, I haven’t! I’ve never been in _ anything _ with Allison, and you don’t get to accuse me of that when you have been getting up to God knows what with half our high school!” _

_ Lydia had backed down, like he had hit her, and Jackson had felt good for the first time in their conversation. _

_ “How many times did you cheat on me before McCall? Because you see, I thought that those were empty threats, that you would never, not really. But you did, didn’t you? Was it the first time or just the time you forgot to cover your tracks?” _

_ “You were―” _

_ “Not the best at lacrosse anymore, was I? Not good enough to be your boyfriend, because this has always been about your reputation and not your feelings? Did you even love me then? Do you even love me _ now _ ?” _

* * *

“David,” said Nancy, softly. “Leave him alone, he needs to rest.”

Jackson didn’t wait for his answer, just ran up to his room. His phone was exploding with messages from Allison and Danny. And two from Peter.

_ Are you okay? _

_ If you don’t answer in the next half an hour I’ll find you myself _

He took a shaky breath and answered, something in him knowing that he was serious. That he would come. It warmed him a bit inside, through the numbness. The knowledge that Peter cared.

_ Lydia broke up with me _

Peter’s reply was fast, like he had been waiting for contact. Which was absurd, Peter had better things to do, he was looking for his son. He didn’t have the time to take care of Jackson.

_ Is there anything I can do? _

_ Do you have a magical potion to make it stop hurting? _

_ No, I’m afraid it’s not a pain anyone can drain _

Jackson bit his lip, knowing that he shouldn’t ask. That anything Peter knew, he knew despite Lydia’s wishes. And yet.

_ Did she love me? _

_ Yes. Trust me, she really did. _

Jackson turned off the phone, incapable of continuing to talk about it. He didn’t want to deal with Allison, who was at fault for everything. Not even with Danny, who would probably be happy that they weren’t together anymore.

Lydia had loved him.

And even with that, Jackson had managed to fuck everything up.

* * *

_ “I spent years pretending to be vapid and stupid just so you wouldn’t feel bad. You never wanted me to be anything but a pretty porcelain doll at your arm!” _

_ “How was that my fault? I didn’t even know you were secretly a genius, you’re the one who lied to me!” _

_ “Because you couldn’t handle it! You always have to be the best, don’t you? It would have killed you to know that I’m smarter than you!” _

_ “Maybe because you were always acting like you were _ better _ than me and I would never measure up! Maybe because you always made sure I knew that I didn’t deserve you!” _

_ “Oh, don’t blame me for your own issues, you have never felt like you measured up to _ anyone. _ ” _

* * *

Jackson cried into his pillow until he could no longer breathe. He had fucked everything up, and shouldn’t have expected any different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, you wanted to read Jackson finding out that he's Achilles. It will happen soon! But for now, you got to see Chris and Jackson interact. Isn't that nice? It was about time, since they are tagged as one of the main relationships in this fic, xD


	8. A dance of whisky and blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "_He flipped the page, ignoring Peter, and started to read the document. It was some kind of birth certificate._
> 
> Parents: Peter Anthony Hale and Christopher Gerard Argent
> 
> _It was like his world had collapsed in itself, leaving behind only the sound of static. He blinked―once, twice, maybe infinite times, numbers didn’t make sense anymore―and looked at Peter, who had his eyes closed, shaking and covered in blood, defeated as he had never seen him. This wasn’t a ploy, wasn’t part of a plan, he really didn’t want Chris to know. Which meant…_
> 
> Parents: Peter Anthony Hale and **Christopher Gerard Argent**"
> 
> Peter goes after the Argent's bestiary and his secrets are uncovered.  
(Jackson is angry at Allison and she worries about their friendship.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who said that the quarantine was going to help me have more free time for writing? I did, like an idiot. Online classes are kicking my ass and I had a writer's block while writing the last scene of this chapter, so that explains why I'm so late.  
In theory this chapter was going to be even longer and stop at a BIG cliff-hanger... but it's already close to 8k, so I rearranged the plan. I hope you like it!
> 
> As always, thanks to Rhysiana for being a wonderful beta, I don't know what I would do without her <3
> 
> DISCLAIMER: OKAY, so this chapter went to some dark places and I changed the tags to include **Mild Dub-Con and Canon-Typical Violence**. I don't want to spoil the chapter, so if you think it may be triggering for you check the end notes. Stay safe!
> 
> PD: I posted another fic called _Most Wanted,_ also Petopher, that you can check out in my works. It's a one-shot, so you won't have to wait for any update, xD

Chris was staring into the abyss of a glass of whisky when the doorbell rang.

It was too early to drink, but Allison had gone to school and it was the only time he had alone in the apartment. Chris was well aware of the risk, since it wasn’t uncommon in the hunting world to drown yourself in a bottle, and he had never been one to indulge. If Victoria had found him drinking at these hours of the morning, she would have thrown the tumbler into the garbage can without a word, kissed his temple, and demanded he go on some errand or another.

But Victoria was gone. She had killed herself using his own hand, in their daughter’s bedroom. And all of it because she had tried to murder a teenager. He was still in shock, incapable of believing she had lied to him about something like that. She had to know he would disapprove, that he would get angry at her for doing something so unbelievably stupid.

Or maybe she hadn’t. Chris had never told her about his own sins, about the real reason he hadn’t shot Scott McCall after finding him in the car with his daughter. He had wanted to shoot, but a part of him couldn’t forget about his own youth, about loving a werewolf more than his own life. Couldn’t forget the nightmares that had imprinted themselves on his eyelids, the image of his father killing Peter in front of him. He had always promised himself that he would be a better father for Allison than Gerard had been for him, and there he was, recreating what had been his worst fear. Turning into the worst of Gerard.

But Victoria hadn’t known. He hadn’t told her. In her eyes, it had probably looked like weakness. The softness his own father complained about, his refusal to stray from the Code. Once upon a time, Victoria had told him that she didn’t share that opinion, that she believed in his strength, but maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she felt that he didn’t have what was necessary to do it himself and had taken on the duty to protect their daughter. And then had lied to him to shield him from his own shortcomings, from the knowledge that she had tried to do what he was too cowardly to do himself.

The doorbell rang again, longer, and Chris drank the rest of his whisky and got up to answer the door in one motion.

With a hand on his concealed gun, he looked through the peehole.

_ Peter _ .

He took a step back, in shock. What was he doing there?

“Are you going to open the door anytime soon?” asked Peter, his voice distorted by the closed door.

Chris breathed in and out. He didn’t want to, he didn’t want to see Peter, or for Peter to see him now, half drunk and pathetic. He tried to tame his disheveled hair with his fingers and straighten his wrinkled shirt, a futile attempt to hide what a mess he was. Useless, as Peter would smell the alcohol in his breath and skin, but Chris had to try and hide his soft underbelly. The wolf had a nose for vulnerability; if he latched onto something, he wouldn’t let go.

The doorbell rang a third time and Chris opened the door, pointing the gun to his face.

“If you ring again―” Chris started to say, before he almost swallowed his tongue.

The last time he’d seen Peter, the wolf had been stained with blood, eyes red and puffy, hands shaking. Now, he stood proud, perfectly groomed, arrogant in his black cardigan with the sleeves rolled up and no shirt. He looked good enough to eat and Chris was both ashamed of his own sorry state and frustrated by how much Peter was purposefully tempting him.

“I’m sure that I can make up the rest,” said Peter, a condescendent smirk in place. He raised a single finger and touched the muzzle of the gun, slowly pushing it down. “You don’t need to threaten to shoot me every time, you know?”

“Maybe I enjoy it,” Chris said, and immediately cursed himself.

Peter’s smirk got even bigger, blue eyes glinting with amusement and satisfaction.

“Yes, I remember your gun kink, Argent, but I’m afraid I’m here for business.”

“What business?”

“Payback,” replied Peter, gleeful. “I scratched your back, helping you save the hunter brat, and now you get to scratch mine.”

Chris sneered at his words, at the suggestive tone, at the idea of an offer that wasn’t really there.

“What do you want, Peter?”

“Oh, so many things…” he sighed dreamily, looking at him through his eyelashes and sending waves of desire through Chris’ body. He hated him, hated how well he knew how to push Chris’ buttons, how easy it was for Peter to affect him. “But for now, I want to consult the Argent Bestiary.”

Chris laughed at that, incredulous.

“No. Go away.”

Peter’s face changed at that, and now Chris could see the cracks on his mask, the anger brewing inside. Making Peter’s life difficult, knowing he had the power in this particular instance, was invigorating.

“That’s not how this works. You don’t get to come to my place and force me to go on a shit adventure to save some hunter scum and then refuse to do your fucking part. You owe me.”

“I don’t,” said Chris. “You helped save Timmy to avoid more hunters in the territory, not to help  _ me _ . And collaboration to manage supernatural creatures is part of the treaty, letting you have access to my private property isn’t.”

Peter crossed his arms, which was clearly an offensive. He had strong forearms, and the gesture called attention to the deep, deep neckline of that fucking cardigan, which could barely contain his pecs when he flexed, tense and angry.

The whisky had muddled Chris’ mind enough that he couldn’t stop himself from staring. He could see the top of Peter’s abs, and it seemed like a great starting point to lick his way up Peter’s chest and reach his bulging neck.

“I only need five minutes with it. The sooner that you let me consult it, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

“The answer is no.”

“Come on, Christopher, we both know you want this to be over so you can climb back into the whisky bottle. It’s not like you’ve never let me look through it.”

It was like a slap. Every single part of his statement was. Bringing up his tipsy state, reminding him of those times when he would let Peter look through hunter’s books and listen to his running commentary while Chris played with his hair, calling him Christopher for the first time since―

_ Don’t go. Please, Christopher. You don’t have to listen to your father, you don’t have to obey! We can run, we can― _

_ No _ , he had said, hiding how much his heart was breaking into pieces.  _ I can’t, I  _ won’t.

Chris hit Peter with his gun, right across the face. Peter made a surprised sound, having clearly miscalculated the effect of his words, and his eyes were wide and surprised. Just for one second, just enough that Chris felt like shit.

He wanted to drop the gun, the touch of metal burning his skin, but his training had been carefully ingrained. He knew better than to face an angry werewolf weaponless. And Peter was furious.

“I’ve never thought you could fall any lower, but I guess I was wrong. Did that get you off, Argent? How nice, maybe you’ll even make your father proud, after all these years. I guess it must be a family thing, your dear little Katie had to get her sadistic insanity from  _ somewhere _ .”

“Shut up,” he said, tightening his grip on the gun. He could still see Kate’s corpse; it hunted him in his nightmares. His sister, dead and covered in blood, crying. His sister, alive and surrounded by flames, cackling.

“Why? Is the truth uncomfortable? If you’re truly expecting me to do what you ask for, suck your dick and take your punishment without complaining―”

“Shut up!” he repeated, shaky.

Chris felt sick. Yes, Peter was a werewolf and the wound had already healed, but he shouldn’t have hit him. Using violence to silence people, using it just because he had been reminded of the pain of the dreadful night where he had to leave Peter behind… how was he any better than Gerard?

He should apologize, but he wouldn’t. Peter would pounce if he did, take his guilt and use it to twist him to do whatever he wanted. Peter was clever, ruthless, and when his facade had cracked, there had been desperation in his eyes. He didn’t want the bestiary, he  _ needed  _ it. And Chris wasn’t going to give it to him.

Peter was glaring daggers at him, but he huffed and then it was gone, his anger melting into resolve.

“Attacking part of the pack without provocation could be considered a declaration of war, Argent.”

“Derek isn’t going to go to war for you,” said Chris, cutting.

Peter didn’t react to this, even if Chris knew it had to hurt. Instead, he smirked again, resting against the doorframe.

“But isn’t he? I think you underestimate how much the fire scarred him, how strongly he would react to you hurting his family again.”

Chris opened and closed his hands, trying to focus. He wasn’t really drunk and, as much as Peter got under his skin, he wasn’t stupid. Maybe he wasn’t as good at reading the wolf as he had once been, but he knew his methods, his half-truths and his way of twisting things until they served his interests.

“He isn’t here,” Chris said, after a second. “You want the bestiary for personal reasons and I would bet that he doesn’t know about it. You tell him and, on top of having no proof, you’ll have some explanations to give. So let me ask you, why do you want the bestiary? You have your own sources, sources you would trust more than mine.”

“Would you believe me if I tell you it’s a personal matter and not some kind of scheme, like you’re clearly guessing?”

“No,” said Chris, because he wasn’t an idiot.

“You are so frustrating,” Peter growled, jaw clenched. “I hate you so much.”

“So do I,” lied Chris.

Was it a lie? No. He did hate Peter. He also loved him, he always would, but that didn’t mean anything. It hadn’t stopped him from falling in love with Victoria either. It did make those things more painful, but Chris was good with pain. He  _ understood  _ pain.

Peter’s eyes flashed blue and then he was on him. Chris raised his gun again before his brain could understand he wasn’t being attacked. No, he was being kissed. He moaned in Peter’s mouth, hostering his gun. Tangling his fingers into Peter’s well groomed hair, he pulled as hard as he could. Instead of gasping and baring his neck, as he usually did, Peter started to unbuckle his belt.

“Bed,” he said, ordered, before attacking Chris’ mouth again and starting to walk into the apartment.

Chris didn’t want to have sex with Peter, as much as he desired him, not when he couldn’t stop thinking of Victoria. Her strength, her smile, her anger, her laughter… Chris missed his wife like a limb and it hurt so much. The idea that maybe she had thought him a coward, that she had died trying to make up for his weakness, was still fresh and it sucked the air out of his lungs.

But Peter had always made him feel better; being with him was like building a barrier between him and the rest of the world. He had spent his teenage years trying to lose himself in Peter, to drown his pain in the wolf, and it had worked. It was a temporary reprieve, a vice more dangerous than alcohol, but he was so tired… He didn’t want to resist any longer.

Chris guided them to the bedroom, their lips still chasing each other, and pushed the wolf into his bed. He was glad they had moved, as the idea of Peter in his old bed, where he had been with Victoria, made him sick.

Peter took off his cardigan with a fluid motion, not bothering with the buttons. Chris got on top of him and kissed him again, trying to chase away the taste of whisky and regret, to find the peace that he needed.

But it wasn’t working.

With a frustrated groan, he started to kiss Peter’s neck. He could feel him tense under his touch, but the hands pulling his pants down didn’t falter.

Something was wrong. It  _ felt  _ wrong.

Chris frowned, trying to get his hand over Peter’s crotch, but he was stopped and redirected to Peter’s hip. Before he could say anything, his mouth was assaulted again.

A distraction.

He felt his stomach drop. Peter wasn’t making a sound, wasn’t chasing his touch, didn’t want him to touch his erection… Because there wasn’t one. He was going through the motions like a pro, but Chris knew how Peter was in bed and this wasn’t it.

With a quick movement, he got his thigh between Peter’s legs and confirmed that he was nearly soft. Peter flipped them, getting on top, but Chris pulled away, looking straight into his blue eyes. Peter’s pupils weren’t dilated, there wasn’t a trace of desire, only determination.

Chris felt sick.

“Get off me,” he said, unconsciously repeating Peter’s words in that motel.

Peter didn’t, bending over to try and kiss him again. Chris turned away.

“This is about the bestiary?” he asked. His lips felt numb, the rest of his skin itchy.

“What are you talking about?” said Peter, his hand going for Chris’ dick.

He pushed him away, repulsed.

“Don’t fucking play with me, Peter.”

The wolf looked at him, eyes burning with anger. And then he dropped the pretense.

“I tried to fucking reason with you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“And what did you think, that I would exchange the bestiary for sex?”

“Well, it was worth a try. You may not listen to me, but I know you want me, so…”

“So you thought you would whore yourself to me?”

Peter  _ actually rolled his eyes _ , like Chris was being irrational, like anything in this situation was okay.

“If you want to be crass about it. I prefer to think of it as a  _ quid pro quo _ arrangement. We both get what we want.”

Chris got out of bed, pulling his pants up. He felt dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the whisky, his skin itching still, something heavy in the bottom of his gut.

“What I want? You think I want this?”

Peter arched a single eyebrow.

“I know you want it. Please, I could smell it on you the moment you opened the door.”

“Not like this,” said Chris, frustrated. “Not if you don’t fucking want it! What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with  _ me _ ?” asked Peter, incredulous. “What was I supposed to do? I tried to talk to you and I only got my face smashed with a gun.”

It was the truth, but it was also false, unfair. Chris had fucked up, yes, but there was a difference between a one-off moment of violence and taking sexual advantage of Peter. God, he wanted to throw up.

“You were drunk and angry,” continued Peter, “and I don’t have time to fight with you and walk you through your own fucking feelings.”

Chris was feeling less intoxicated by the second and his mind was racing, adrenaline running through his veins.

“Did you want to last time? In the motel. Is that why you locked yourself in―”

“Fuck off,” said Peter, getting out of bed too and grabbing his cardigan.

“Did you?” insisted Chris, his fists so tight that he was about to draw blood with his own nails. “You ran away afterwards.”

Peter snarled at him, his eyes turning a supernatural blue.

“Shut up!”

Seeing that he was about to flee again, Chris blocked the door. He needed a fucking answer and he was going to get it.

“You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me.”

Peter brushed his hair back. His hands were trembling, gone the confident facade.

“I wanted to, okay? If you want to pretend that it makes a difference―”

“Of course it makes a difference!”

“No, it doesn’t!” yelled Peter. “Stop pretending that you care. You’re throwing a tantrum because your pride got hurt, which isn’t my problem by any stretch of the imagination. What, you were expecting me to buy into your bullshit like when were teenagers, to think this is anything other than sex? Well, I have bad news for you, because I wised up years ago.”

“A tantrum,” Chris repeated, incensed by the words, by the implication that this was about pride, that he was some kind of monster who only wanted to use Peter for his own pleasure. “Is that what you had last time?”

Peter growled and bared his teeth, fangs glistening, and tried to get to the door. Chris blocked his path again, advancing one step, getting in his face. He wasn’t afraid now; he was too angry to be afraid.

“What did you expect? You thought you could bite and kiss all the skin your sister burned off my body and I wouldn’t react? That I wouldn’t need a fucking moment? I’m sorry if I don’t share your shitty kinks, Argent, but it wasn’t that fun for me.”

Chris blinked, not having expected that answer. He hadn’t even thought about it, he knew that Peter had been badly burned and remained in a coma for years, but… It seemed so unreal, so out of character. He couldn’t even imagine how Peter would have looked covered in burns; it was too far away from the man he knew.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, defensive, and Peter laughed.

“Like you would have stopped.”

“Of course I would have.”

Peter laughed again, shaking his head, and there wasn’t a trace of doubt in his face. He was absolutely convinced that Chris wouldn’t have cared about his feelings or needs and would have kept going. He remembered Peter tensing when he kissed his neck just now. Chris hadn’t stopped instantly, but he had tried to figure out what was wrong, he  _ cared _ , goddammit.

But Peter would never believe it, and Chris was beginning to understand that all those times he had belittled their relationship, the love they once had shared, he had meant every word. It wasn’t a mind game, it was the truth… from Peter’s perspective.

It hurt. Chris had never imagined that, when he broke their relationship, he would destroy the memories too. Would turn their love into a lie, would turn himself into a monster at Peter’s eyes.

Chris got out of the way of the door, silently, and Peter took his chance to leave, slamming the door behind him. Chris buried his face between his hands, trying to control his breathing. With wavering steps, he went to the en suite and splashed his face with water. He gripped the porcelain sink and focused in his breathing, waiting for the sound of the front door. It felt like ages before it came, and Chris punched the wall, narrowly avoiding the mirror.

It hurt, but the pain cleared his mind. He washed his face with cold water, trying to fully sober up. He had been lucid during their discussion thanks to the adrenaline, but he knew that it would only make the coming crash down worse.

He tried to go to his office, but the bottle was still there, next to an empty tumbler.

Chris closed the door and went to the kitchen, putting distance between him and temptation.

* * *

“Hi, Dad,” said Allison, taking a seat on the kitchen table.

“We have chairs,” he reminded her.

“And like ten loaves of bread, apparently,” she said, puzzled. “Have you been baking all day?”

“Not all day. Do you want to taste and tell me how it is?”

“Sure,” she said, pulling off a piece and taking a bite. “Mm, I like it. But what do you plan to do with all of this?”

“Eat it.”

“Dad.”

“Two of the loaves are for dinner sandwiches.”

“What about all the rest?”

“We’ll freeze them.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” she asked, biting her lip, unsure.

Chris sighed, getting the next loaf in the oven. He didn’t want to talk about it, especially with his daughter. After hours of kneading his frustration into bread and a hot shower, he had calmed down somewhat. He didn’t even have a hangover, thanks to a secret hunter remedy, and all of the proof of what had happened was hidden from Allison. But they were trying to communicate and he had to lead by example, so Chris would have to communicate just enough.

“I had a fight with someone I used to know. It didn’t end well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he lied with a little smile. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” she lied too, not well enough to deceive him.

“I’m not going to force you to tell me, but I want you to know that I’m here if you want to talk to me.”

Allison made a face.

“It’s stupid, it’s high school crap.”

“Language,” Chris reminded her. “And you go to high school, so it’s perfectly fine to care about high school  _ stuff _ , nothing stupid about it.”

Allison hesitated, but ended up sighing and eating another piece of bread.

“Jackson is angry at me.”

Chris’ first instinct is to say ‘ _ Good _ ’, because Scott was bad enough, but Jackson Whittemore had wanted to become a werewolf, knew the risk and took it anyway. And he was also a terrible influence, a spoiled brat whose obnoxious, irresponsible behaviour he didn’t want within a ten-mile radius of his daughter. But if he said that, Allison would get angry and close off.

“Why? You were fine yesterday,” he said.

“I… may have miscalculated a bit.”

“About…”

Allison made a pained gesture, twirling her hair between her fingers.

“Have you ever done something trying to help just for it to explode in everyone’s face?”

“Sure,” said Chris, waiting for her to add more.

“Jackson and Lydia weren’t good together, and were avoiding talking about it. They were so bad, Dad, it was painful to watch. Lydia cheated, Jackson was jealous, they were both being cruel and horrible to each other! Yesterday Jackson was angry at Lydia, which is why he agreed to skip class, because he wanted to avoid her… but that wasn’t going to fix anything! So, when I went to drop Jackson at school, I warned Lydia. She had been sending me texts asking me if he was very angry and sounded upset, so I thought that, if she could corner him and force him to talk about it, they could figure things up.”

“I assume that it ended badly,” he said, seeing where things were going.

“She broke up with him,” admitted Allison. “Jackson didn’t take it very well.”

“Well, it’s her prerogative to end their relationship and he’s going to have to deal with it,” said Chris, irked. More because of the fresh memory of his own break up than because he cared about high school gossip.

“Yeah, but now he’s angry at me for meddling. He said that I betrayed his trust and I chose Lydia over him. I told him that I only wanted to help, but…”

“But…” Chris repeated, seeing that she trailed off.

“You’re not going to like this,” said Allison, deepening her pained expression. “He said I was a hypocrite, since I complained about Scott not telling me about Mom because he thought he knew better, but it was alright if I did it.”

“That,” said Chris fuming, “isn’t even close to the same.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. “But he’s angry and hurt, and doesn’t want to know anything about me. I don’t know how to fix it, Dad.”

Chris sighed, trying to think in a good answer. He had never been good at high school crap, which is why he had ignored most of it. If it hadn’t been for Peter and his never-ending obsession with gossip, Chris wouldn’t have even bothered to learn the names of his classmates.

“If what you’re telling me is true, then they were always destined to break up. Give him time, he’ll come around.”

“I don’t know, Jackson isn’t the forgiving type. What if he refuses to be my friend ever again?”

“Then it’s his loss,” said Chris, kissing her forehead.

“I guess… But Jackson has really been there for me lately. He’s been a great friend and I feel like I’ve let him down.”

“Give him some time to cool off and then talk to him again. I’m sure he’ll let it go once it doesn’t hurt as much.”

Allison gave him a little smile, and it made Chris feel better about everything. His daughter always had that effect on him, that quiet happiness. He wouldn’t be sappy enough to say she was the light of his life… but she was.

“I can keep an eye on the bread, if you want to take a break,” she said, jumping off the table.

Chris was about to refuse, but Allison’s gaze turned sharp in a way that was uniquely Victoria’s. It wasn’t an offer, it was an order for him to get himself out of the kitchen and actually deal with things. It hurt too much not to obey.

“Okay, then. I’ll be in my office.”

He had to hide the bottle, after all. The idea of Allison finding out he had been drinking while she was at school filled him with a deep shame.

When he sat at his desk, he noticed that something was off. The realization hit him like a train, his eyes looking at the drawer with horror. There was something in the lock, a small metal circle fused with it. Chris pulled it off and it reformed, but when he pressed it back, it melted into it again and the lock made a sound.  _ Fuck _ . He opened the drawer with a jerk, without needing the key, and found it empty. The bestiary was gone.

Chris got up out of his chair, fuming, and grabbed the wolfsbane bullets. Peter was going to pay for this, even if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

He didn’t bother ringing the doorbell. There was no need, thanks to Peter’s little trick. In less than a second Chris was in the apartment, gun ready and fire in his blood. He could hear the shower, and loud noises that meant that Peter was scrambling to get to the living room.

The bestiary was open next to a laptop on the coffee table, which was covered with papers and books. Chris recognized the section about kanimas, after a month trying to haunt Jackson down, but it didn’t make sense that Peter was doing research on the subject after all this time. He got closer, trying to find something that would make the pieces of this fucked up puzzle fit, since there had to be something serious going on for Peter to go this far.

It was then that he saw the picture.

Peter entered the living room with eyes shining blue and fangs out, ready for an attack, but Chris was already firing his gun. Peter’s knee exploded with a disgusting sound and he went down, the wound smoking blue. Growling with clear menace, he tried to get up.

“Stay down or I’ll go for the head next, Peter. Don’t fucking test me,” Chris warned. He had been used and manipulated, and his anger was arctic cold. In that moment, he felt like he could slit Peter’s throat without a second thought, if necessary.

The wolf stayed down, but kept growling in the back of his throat. Long gone was the man from his morning, the handsome and arrogant bastard that had pulled Chris’ strings like he was a fucking puppet. This Peter looked feral, panic bleeding through in his every movement, soaked to the bone and covered in blood. At some point before Chris broke in, he had clawed his own face open, and if the faded red lines around the bleeding cuts were to be trusted, he had done so more than once. Peter had never looked more like an animal and it was a horrifying sight.

If the betrayal wasn’t still so fresh, Chris would have been concerned and asked what was wrong… But it was, so instead he took the file from the coffee table, gun still trained on Peter’s head.

“Don’t fucking dare you,” he warned when the wolf went to pounce, panicking.

“If you are going to kill me, do it now! Stop wasting both our time while you gather enough courage to pull the trigger.”

Chris wanted to respond, but he knew it was a trap. He knew that Peter wanted him to engage, to distract him by screaming at each other. It may have worked anyway, eager as he was to fight him, but the photo was just strange enough that his curiosity won against his anger. Why would Peter have a photo of two babies, and how did that relate to the kanima?

“Christopher!” screamed Peter. “I’m fucking talking to you, you asshole―”

He flipped the page, ignoring Peter, and started to read the document. It was some kind of birth certificate.

_ Parents: Peter Anthony Hale and Christopher Gerard Argent _

It was like his world had collapsed in itself, leaving behind only the sound of static. He blinked―once, twice, maybe infinite times, numbers didn’t make sense anymore―and looked at Peter, who had his eyes closed, shaking and covered in blood, defeated as he had never seen him. This wasn’t a ploy, wasn’t part of a plan, he really didn’t want Chris to know. Which meant…

_ Parents: Peter Anthony Hale and  _ ** _Christopher Gerard Argent_ **

“How?” he asked, voice rough, his throat dry.

Peter didn’t answer, his eyes were so closely shut that the eyelids were trembling.

“Talk, Peter, and do it now.”

“Page nine,” he said, his voice faint and strangled. “The lines in red.”

Chris nodded, even if Peter still couldn’t see it. As he turned the pages, he saw pictures of ultrasounds and one of Peter with a giant belly. God, it was the truth. It was undeniable and so out of what he could have ever expected that he nearly dropped the folder, but his training kept him steady.

Page nine, the lines in red ink.

DEATH OF  **HALE, UNNAMED** : March 7, 2003; 16:03 p.m.

DEATH OF  **HALE, ACHILLES** : March 10, 2003; 01: 48 a.m.

It hit him like a truck. Those babies… Peter’s babies,  _ his  _ babies… dead.

“Graduation night,” he said, even if he knew already. It was the first time that they had seen each other in two years, and the dates fit perfectly. Peter didn’t bother answering. “You told me that it was impossible, that male pregnancies were a myth.”

“I lied,” said Peter, and started to laugh, tears falling down his scarred face. The laughter sounded painful, like it was ripping out his insides, and his eyes stayed closed. “I was sixteen and stupid, I thought that it would be too much supernatural crap and you would break up with me, so I lied. I was on birth control, it wasn’t supposed to be a problem.”

“Then how did it happen?” Chris asked, because if he understood, maybe things would make sense. Maybe the pieces would fit and he would know what to do with this information, with the folder that burned in his hands.

“I stopped taking it a year after we broke up, when I started dating a girl. There wasn’t much of a point to it if my sexual partner didn’t have a dick, was there? And then you came around for one last fuck and I didn’t even think about it. Not until I woke up smelling pregnant.”

Peter thinking that Chris had only wanted him for sex barely registered, which was a testament to how distraught and confused he felt. Taking a deep breath, Chris holstered his gun and asked the question that was hanging between them.

“How did they die?”

Peter finally opened his eyes, so blue he didn’t even know if he was looking at the wolf or the man, burning with grief, pain, and accusation.

“Who, other than hunters, would murder two newborn babies?”

“Murder?” he choked, despite his better intentions. He had assumed…

“Wolfsbane bombs,” said Peter, and his voice broke. He covered his face with shaky hands, almost sobbing. Chris wanted to cover him with the blanket that hung from the couch, Peter’s pain tugging at his heartstrings and compelling him to envelop him in a hug and comfort him, but he controlled himself. “Through the only window of the hidden room in the basement. It― it knocked the crib over, so it offered some protection from the gas, but… they were only days old, and the wolfsbane was enhanced. My firstborn died within the hour, and Achilles a couple of days later.”

The notion of that child dying without even having a name was a punch on his gut. Chris’ hands were shaky, and he went back to the picture.

“Which one is he?”

“Achilles is the blond one,” answered Peter, claws opening his wounds again, blood mixing with the tears.

So the brunet was the firstborn, and the first to die.  _ Hale, Unnamed. _ He didn’t even have Chris’ last name. With shaky fingers, he traced the curve of that full cheek, the silhouette of his closed fist, the path of his only lock of hair. He had the same red stain on his eyelid that Allison had on her nose when she was born; a stork bite, the nurse had called it. Allison’s had gone away when she was one year old, but that boy had never reached that age.

And Achilles… he was so tiny and pretty. He reminded Chris of babies in commercials and, vaguely, of his own baby picture. But his… his  _ son _ was cuter. Perfect. A lovely child that had been half his, and half Peter’s.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter stilled, like he had been hit, and finally got up, even if his knee was still badly hurt.

“The last thing you ever told me was that you loved your pregnant wife and that I had been a mistake that would never happen again. What was I supposed to do, Argent?”

“Tell me!” he yelled. “If I had know, if I had been here―”

“Hunters would have found us even sooner,” said Peter, without hesitation. He looked defiant again, despite his sorry state. “Gerard would have killed me before I gave birth and tainted your glorious bloodline. What, you think you could have actually been their father? The father of a  _ werewolf _ ? You think your family wouldn’t have found out if you had been involved, that my pack would have allowed you to come and go as you pleased, when you found a moment between hunting our kind and raising your real daughter? As much of an idiot as you are, there is no way you believe this could have ended any other way.”

“They were mine too,” he said after a second, because all of that was true, but he hadn’t gotten to meet them. He had two sons who he had never gotten to hold.

“Oh, fuck you. I carried them, I birthed them, I  _ buried  _ them. You don’t get to claim them seventeen years later, when you didn’t even know that they existed. When your kind fucking murder them.”

Chris didn’t have an answer. It wasn’t fair, Peter had been the one that hid them from him, but it still hurt. It still rang somewhat true and broke his heart. His eyes dropped back to the folder, and he started to flip the pages again.

Peter tensed, but said nothing. He looked like he was readying himself for the next blow and Chris’ heart sank, knowing that there was more to come.

And there, on the last page.

“Achilles is alive.”

“Yes,” said Peter, voice tiny.

“But… I don’t understand. Peter. There was―” he went back to page nine.

DEATH OF  **HALE, UNNAMED** : March 7, 2003; 16:03 p.m.

DEATH OF  **HALE, ACHILLES** : March 10, 2003; 01: 48 a.m.

“There is an hour of death. Why on Earth there would be― Why would you give him up to strangers? I would have taken him, I would have protected him! Why is there an hour of death? He isn’t fucking death, you just told me that he isn’t, I―”

“They faked his death.”

Chris stopped in his tracks, looking at Peter with confusion. He opened his mouth, and then… closed it, the realization slowly dawning.

“You didn’t know.”

Peter shook his head, closing his eyes again, trying to ease his breathing. The wounds on his face were healing very slowly because of the wolfsbane bullet, which had to hurt. Chris wanted to heal him, but knew better than to interrupt him when he was like that, when he was gathering courage for something painful.

“My last memory of the baby is taking his pain at night. I fell asleep with him in my arms, and when I woke up… He was gone. The pack bond was broken. My sister was there, telling me she was sorry, crying. I thought… We buried them in the preserve, but I wasn’t allowed to see their bodies. I didn’t insist, I knew I couldn’t handle it, I could barely handle being there, smelling the wolfsbane and the beginning of rot coming from the casket― But then I became an alpha, and that night I dreamed about it. At first I thought it was a nightmare, but there was something different. A baby crying,  _ my  _ baby.” Peter got quiet for a second, eyes wet but no tears falling. “When I woke up there was blood on my neck and I knew. I  _ knew, _ Christopher. After my resurrection, I went to a witch and she confirmed that my son is alive, so I started looking.”

“Why wait? Why didn’t you―”

“While the hunter that burned my fucking family alive was at large? Without even knowing if it was the same person that went after my sons in the first place?” he said, angry and annoyed. “Come on, Christopher, you’re smarter than this.”

Chris closed the file, forcing himself to stay calm while flexing his fingers. Peter was dick. He knew this. And the situation was so fucking terrible that he couldn’t even blame him for it.

“Was it Kate?” he asked, voice rough.

“I truly don’t know,” said Peter. “Maybe. We checked on Gerard’s whereabouts, but your sister was fucking twelve and no one knew she was a psychopath, I didn’t think to look into her.”

Chris wasn’t satisfied with that answer, with the fact that they hadn’t found the person who had killed his son and they were probably still out there, living their lives while an innocent baby rotted in the middle of the preserve, forgotten by everyone.

“Why would your sister take the memory away, why would she steal our son?”

“I don’t know!” yelled Peter, voice ragged. “I don’t fucking know, okay? It’s not like I can ask her, because she’s dead! Everyone involved is fucking dead except for Deaton, who would never help me because we hate each other. I assume that after the attack she thought keeping him was too risky, for him and the pack, but  _ I don’t know. _ She took my fucking memories away so I wouldn’t know!”

“Okay,” he said, as Peter was starting to lose it again. Chris needed him put together, at least for now. He needed to know what happened with the baby that was still alive. Achilles. He needed― “Jackson,” he understood. “It’s Jackson, isn’t it?”

Peter swallowed and gave him a shaky nod. He seemed to mutter some kind of mantra, something to calm himself, before finally opening his eyes again.

“Everything points in that direction. There isn’t hard proof, but too much fits for him not to be. He’s the right age to the month, was born in Beacon Hills and put up for adoption within a week of the attack, my sister was friends with his family and deliberately hid it from me, we formed an actual pack bond within a month, he exhibits the usual characteristics of a human with werewolf blood… we even have the same eyes, Christopher.”

Chris blinked and looked at Peter’s eyes. He had a flash of the time when he thought that Jackson was the beta, of grabbing the teenager and looking deep into his eyes to try and get a read on him. He had been scared and his eyes had been big and blue, the same shade as Peter’s. God, he couldn’t even― Jackson had been in his house yesterday, watching a movie with his daughter, and he hadn’t known.

“There’s more,” said Peter, limping towards the couch. His knee was surrounded by dark veins and Chris avoided looking at it. “The bestiaries I have access to either don’t mention the kanima or just tell you how to kill it, that’s why I needed yours,” he explained, starting to read. “ _ ‘The Kanima is a mutation of the werewolf gene that cannot fully transform until it resolves that in its past which manifests it.’ _ I think the reason he became a kanima is that he had werewolf blood. It fits with the lore of why you shouldn’t give the bite to someone that’s born human in a pack.”

“What’s supposed to happen if you do?”

“The stories don’t give a lot of detail, but the general consensus is that they turn into monsters.”

“Monsters like the kanima.”

“Makes more sense than becoming a  _ lizard  _ because he has a complicated relationship with being adopted,” said Peter, and Chris had to nod. He knew real pieces of shit that had been turned without going through a monstrous phase, and Jackson really wasn’t a bad person, just… an asshole.

Same as Peter.

“Does Deaton know?”

“Oh, for sure,” said Peter, making a displeased face. “Everything happened in his clinic and he had my sister’s trust, she would have gone to him.”

Chris took a bullet and a lighter out of his pocket, throwing them to Peter, who caught them in the air and arched an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Heal yourself and take a shower, we’re going to the clinic. I assume he still has the Creep Files?”

“It’s not that easy. He has more than enough protections to keep intruders away.”

Chris wasn’t planning to let that stop him.

“You got this file, and I don’t think he gave it to you.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said, flinching.

“Who was it?” asked Chris, anger bleeding in his voice, because he fucking knew that face.

“Jackson.”

Chris blinked at that.

“ _ Jackson _ ? You got him involved before knowing for sure it was him? Jesus Christ, Peter, that’s beyond cruel.”

“He doesn’t know,” said Peter, annoyed. “I recruited him when  _ I  _ didn’t know. He overheard me talking on the phone about it, so he was already in the know and I needed someone to get into Deaton’s for me.”

“Why would he help you?” asked Chris, mistrustful.

“We are friends, if you need to know. Derek sent him to spy on me and he took over my couch, so we’ve been hanging out for a while.”

Chris didn’t know how to feel about that, about Peter actually having some kind of connection to their son― _ possible son _ ―while the teen hated his guts.

“Fortunately I’m a hunter and I know how to break down druidic defenses without him noticing. And we have a way to get through the door,” he says, taking the round charm out of his pocket.

Peter looked at it in shock, before starting to swear a storm.

“That’s how you knew so fucking quickly.”

“It was really sloppy of you,” Chris said with a smirk. It wasn’t funny, not really, but Peter hated to make mistakes, especially when they were this stupid.

“Well, I was in a bit of a time crunch,” said Peter, getting off the couch and starting to limp towards the back of the apartment.

“About that,” said Chris. “If you ever try to manipulate me with sex again, I’ll shoot you in the head.”

The wolf stopped in his tracks, turning to look at him in the eyes, defiant.

“You know why I did it.”

He did. Chris would have gone even farther for Allison; he understood that kind of paternal desperation. But the feeling of betrayal hadn’t faded, and he didn’t think it would any time soon.

“Still.”

“Fine,” huffed Peter. “By the way, I feel the same way about all the gratuitous violence of today. The bullet is fair game, but the only reason I didn’t rip your throat open after you hit me with the gun is because it would have attracted unwanted attention.”

And before Chris could answer, before he could decide if apologizing for his mistake was worth it, Peter closed the door behind him. Typical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER:  
*VIOLENCE: Chris hits Peter during a discussion. It's an one-off due to his emotional state, he feels terrible about it and in this universe werewolves have a different relationship with violence... but it's still not okay and Peter has no problem telling him so. If you want to avoid reading this part, stop when you reach "_I can’t, I_ won’t" and start again at "Peter was glaring daggers at him". Unfortunately, it's mentioned several times in this chapter, so it's impossible to avoid all together.  
*DUB-CON: Peter tries to manipulate Chris with sex. Chris realizes what he's doing and that Peter doesn't want to have sex with him before anything goes far, but it's a very big shock for him. To avoid that part, stop reading when you reach "Peter’s eyes flashed blue and then he was on him" and skip the rest of the scene. As before, what happened is mentioned through the chapter.
> 
> Chris finally knows! It was about time... and I assume some of you are upset because Jackson _still_ doesn't know. Patience, we are getting there, ;)
> 
> I don't know when I'll be able to update again, but I'll try to do so as soon as possible. Hope you liked it!


End file.
